


Lovers After the War

by Debate



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Canon Related, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Minor Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Mutual Pining, Post-War, Sexual Content, more like they both know they love each other and are waiting for the right timing, really we're just here for the romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: Arya didn't question their intimacy during the war. Touches and silent kisses exchanged between friends in the dark were unremarkable in comparison to the all-encompassing death and their own fatigue. It was only after victory against an unfathomable enemy that she was made to confront who she wanted to be in peace time, and what Gendry meant to her.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 110
Kudos: 338
Collections: Still Rowing: A Gendrya Centric Fanfic Collection





	1. Ghosts at the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to do a post canon, Winterfell set fic, I still might, but that requires too much rereading when I just want to write romance and smut. Don't expect much external conflict or politiking, but I hope you enjoy!

After the wars, winter persisted.

Grey clouds dropped feet of snow onto the North in intermittent storms, the rivers froze, even as noses never stopped running. Yet despite the chill that woke Arya should a bare hand or foot escape her bedding, she didn’t think it was as cold as it was when she returned to Westeros. There was no bite. No aggressive, feral air. Winter had gone from malicious to indifferent. Bran claimed it was because the Others were gone, that they could no longer feed northern winds. Now the cold was just cold.

Especially at the Wall.

The remnants of Westeros’ greatest army had left in waves following the final battle. Essosi warriors and soldiers were the first to travel south, followed by southern knights from distant holdfasts. Even the Free Folk had dispersed, some settling in the Gift while others ventured back north of the Wall. Now, a month later, only the Black Brothers and some of the wounded remained, as the final company of men dedicated to the North began packing.

Arya could not bring herself to be counted as one of them, just as she had been unable to leave with Bran and Sansa and Rickon two weeks prior. Even now, watching her last friend at the Wall roll extra blankets and strap them to his pack, she didn’t feel compelled to leave, not when there was still a fight inside her. Though she knew she would miss Gendry.

“You’d just call me stupid if I tried to convince you to come to Winterfell now, wouldn’t you?” He said, the first words they’d exchanged since she’d leaned against the doorway to the now empty barracks.

“You are stupid,” she said, trying to inject her response with some kind of humor. But her words were flat and neither she nor Gendry laughed. “I just need to stay a little longer, just in case,” she continued, feeling the need to defend herself, as she had against Sansa. “He rose from the dead before, like Beric. How many times did Beric come back?”

Gendry sighed. “Even if he did, you know the dead don’t come back the same.” The words were spoken evenly. Without cruelty, but also without sympathy. Arya rubbed unconsciously at some ancestral pain that marred her throat and blinked away pricks of water that sprang up in her eyes. “You can stay up here as long as you want, as long as you need, but I don’t think it’ll change anything.”

At least he didn’t insist that Jon was dead. She would not have been polite if he had said anything of the sort. 

“I will come back to Winterfell,” she said, because something tight and locked up in her chest compelled her to. He had followed her there the first time, it was only right that she did the same. “But I’m needed here more.”

It wasn’t a feeling she could quite explain. The Wall wasn’t home, but it didn’t feel like the battlefield it actually was either. Even when dark corners made her flinch sometimes and when snow drifts moved in shadows that looked like a swarm of scrambling wights. The Wall was just a place to her, one that had born witness to her exhaustion and the drip of her blood, yes, but plenty of places had seen her tears and blood, listened to her tired, determined whispers. It wasn’t enough to haunt her.

Jon did though, the memory of his smile and his companionship constantly floating before her eyes like unbound hair in the wind. She owed it to him, and herself, to stay even if it only resulted in meeting her brother’s ghost.

There was a pause as Gendry evaluated her. There was no fidgeting, no anxious ticks, just the air thick with worry between them. Until Gendry offered a wan smile, because he trusted her to know herself well enough not to lie to him. 

“Alright,” Gendry said, even though they both knew that current circumstances weren’t what either of them wanted. Arya wanted him to stay with her, but Gendry didn’t want to continue living on a battlefield.

Even when she and Gendry disagreed, they could still meet in the middle in an embrace. She inhaled sharply at the clasp of his arms around her back. It had been weeks since the last time they’d touched, just after the final battle. It had been a very different sort of touch then, comforting, yes, but more desperate and raw. She had missed the comfort.

A minute or more passed as they held each other, as Arya breathed the coalfire scent of his neck and closed her eyes and pretended there wasn’t a world outside of Gendry’s embrace. Today was not one of the times it worked.

He pulled away a hairsbreadth after some time, and Arya thought, was certain, that he would kiss her. She was near desperate for it. Her heartbeat thudded in her lower lip. But Gendry just squeezed her shoulder as he withdrew his hands from around her, then stepped away to gather his pack.

Arya blinked and held her arms to her chest. It was an unsteadying reminder. They need not share anymore clandestine moments, with the war won. Unless, maybe, she asked.

The moment passed before she gathered her thoughts and nerves.

“You take care of herself,” he said. Arya tried to wish him the same, but for some reason her voice broke around words she didn’t know how to say. Maybe it was because it was the final goodbye, after too much time spent waving at backs or standing over pyres, or maybe it was just because it was Gendry she was saying goodbye to, the best friend she had ever had. 

He waited for her to say something, his gaze focused. All she could manage was a whispered farewell. He repeated his own goodbye. Then, with so much left to say between them, and no way to communicate, he turned and left. Arya waited half a minute before following him out.

In the courtyard he was attaching his saddlebag and double checking the reins. The last of the men headed for Winterfell did the same. Their party consisted of only a half dozen.

“Last chance to come with us, Princess!” One of them called out. The sincerity of the offer struck her; she didn’t even know the man’s name.

“Not today,” she said, watching Gendry bow his head at her words. They had their private goodbye, there wouldn’t be a public one. She bit her lip as they settled in their saddles. A crow cawed from somewhere overhead. Other than Arya, it was the only one to see the men off. She waved as the wind whipped in her face and the horses trotted out of the courtyard, waved until they were out of sight, and then for few minutes more.

Her legs were stiff from the cold and her stillness. It took a great effort for her to step back from the closed gate, and even more to turn her back to it and return to the barracks she was now the sole occupant of. The sun had only just rose and would grace the earth with a few hours of light that felt so precious after months in the dark, but Arya was determined to sleep the day away.

Falling asleep was often harder than anticipated, even when her body and heart were slack with exhaustion. She counted wolves in her mind, remembering Nymeria’s pack running over an open field for the first time. But the memory only brought to mind what followed, the battle that won back Winterfell. Victory didn’t make for a sweet homecoming when bodies surrounded the ramparts.

She turned to her back, exhaled deeply from her mouth. Her stomach clenched with hunger, but she didn’t want to eat. Instead, she hugged her own arms around her body and wished embraces weren’t so ephemeral.

* * *

Instinct wouldn’t let her go on an empty stomach for long, not when a meal was readily available and memories of near starvation in the Riverlands led a guiding hand. She ducked into the kitchen at off hours, avoiding the Night’s Watchmen and re-imagining herself as a ghost, her footsteps soundless on creaky footboards.

For the next three days she kept to the asynchronous schedule, the time not spent eating or tossing and turning in bed was spent hundreds of feet in the air, hoping for a lone figure to emerge as she looked over the lands beyond the Wall.

Before the Others were defeated, she’d only seen it by moon or torch. With the sun high in the sky the snow was nearly blinding. The frequent snowfall covered wayward pieces of debris and spots of red where men had lost their lives. She imagined that it was what Jon saw at fourteen. She tried to think up what he would say of it, but it was hard to remember what Jon was like in their childhood, when the man she had reunited with stood much fresher in her memory. That Jon was colder, some of the warmth had leeched out of him when he died, and he no longer seemed like a man who would be so taken by magnificence.

Sometimes Arya wished she was like that too. A lack of wonder and excitement would mean she wouldn’t hurt so much when everything around her inevitably crumbled and rotted and left. There was no such way to deconstruct herself though, so she was stuck shivering and enjoying the shine of white in her eyes.

She stayed in place long after dark blanketed the earth each night. In the dark, her feet naturally took on an archer’s stance as she ran her thumb on the calluses in the crook of her knuckles. There were no enemies on the horizon, and when she caught herself in those old habits she tried to step out of them; yet every night found her battle ready. When the itch for movement overcame her, she got out Needle and danced among invisible opponents.

Part of her ached for an enemy, but she spoke no names into the air before she slept now. The speech Bran delivered at the Great Remembrance rang in her ears instead, the call for peace and unity had been beautiful, and made her question what was wrong with her that she wanted to fight instead.

At least she was fighting for Jon.

The routine of those first three days was broken by the sort of inevitable cycle that cared not for her persistence or plans. She awoke with red between her thighs, uncomfortably damp. As if she needed an additional reminder that there was nothing alive inside her.

She scrubbed stubbornly at the spot in the bedsheets, struck by the difference in smell and color from wound spilt blood.

She went about gathering the necessary rags that were stored in a special trunk in the far-right corner of the barracks. At first used by the Wildling women who had taken sanctuary at the Wall, it was later but adopted by herself, Meera, Sansa, Ser Brienne, and all the women in Daenerys’ entourage. Only when she was the last one in need of it did she find it empty, the absorbent cloths used as bandages after the battle or taken with the other women when they left. 

Suddenly living in a place only ever inhabited by men seemed a cruel jest directed at her. The frustration tasted hot in her mouth, the first real spike of sensation to overcome her in ages. She took that aggravation and used it as she tore and folded extra bed sheets in the way a Braavosi courtesan had shown her in a different life.

By the time she had finished that, cleaned her clothes, and cried with angry, frustrated tears on the cold floor, the sun had completed its short arc. Dragging herself farther than the kitchens seemed a cousin to impossibility. She laid on top of her bedroll’s replaced sheets, her womb cramping in protest of her missed meals.

She awoke from a nap she hadn’t known she’d been taking only for her stomach to drop. It was not fear that washed over as she sat up from her bedroll, but rather guilt. How easily she had succumbed to inaction, selfishly locking herself inside all day. She hadn’t spent a single minute waiting for Jon. How easy it was to break the promises she made to herself, how easy to lose a fight.

In a rush she prepared for the day, stopping in the kitchen to drink several cups of snow melt in rapid succession followed by several spoonful’s of porridge.

The top of the Wall hadn’t changed in her absence, it was flurrying, but the wind was calm, and she had time to make up for. Only it felt like a performance born of her own stubbornness. Denial had provided her with a mask and a murmur’s lines, and she had accepted the role. But she knew the truth of it now. As she stood on the Wall and snowflakes refused to melt on her eyelashes, she whispered to herself.

“Jon’s dead.”

The words made barely any sound, but she felt the vibration of them in her bones.

Her brother was dead, and he wasn’t coming back. She was standing in defiance to an enemy that didn’t exist.

The wind picked up and Arya turned her back, bracing herself against it. She was facing south now, and with a rush she realized it was just as beautiful and magnificent as the far north.

* * *

She sat down for a more substantial meal, thinking about what she should do. Return to Winterfell, of course, but what was she going to do after that?

Her brother was King, and he needed people to advise him, but that wasn’t Arya. She had been gone from Westeros for a long time, ignorant to the many ways the politics and people had changed. Bran had their sister and Meera besides, what could Arya offer other than her love and devotion to their family? She couldn’t build and repair things like Gendry, couldn’t guard or listen like Brienne. What use were her languages and soft feet and warrior spirit to the North?

The questions ran in circles in her head for hours. She ran through exercises with Needle to drown them out, the simple ones that Syrio had taught her so long ago. Her body knew the movements better than her mind by now, it was odd to think she had ever found them difficult. 

The work of age and experience knew no bounds. she realized with a final, hearty exhale as she completed the final cartwheel, that there were so many things to learn. Things she didn’t even know she could learn. If there was rebuilding to do after the war, then she’d work on rebuilding herself too, stronger and more useful than before. Happier too, hopefully. That’s what Bran was talking about in his speech, and what Jon would have wanted.

For the first night in moons, she dreamed as Nymeria. There was no taste of blood in her mouth, no thump of her paws on hard earth as she gave chase to prey. Just the warm company of her pack around her, smaller than the days before the brunt of winter had arrived, but no less close because of it.

The next morning, hours before the sunrise, she packed her things and readied her horse. She told the cook of her departure, so he would not have to feed the extra mouth, and told him to pass on the message to anyone who might care. Then, without a single person to bid her farewell, she left, ghosts padding at her heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about Jonny Boy 😔  
> Feel free to share your thoughts!


	2. Quiet Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lackluster homecoming, a floundering of direction, and a return to old habits.

Winterfell wore its scars like a person; streaks of fire damage marred its stone walls and the gaps where wooden structures once stood were as obvious as missing teeth. In other places stones tumbled loose from towers and turrets, letting the wind whistle in and erode centuries of stability.

Rebuilding would take a long time. So few men and women were capable of working. Many of the folk the Long Night didn’t take, it maimed, and while some recovered and adapted from the wounds of frostbite or wight axes, many more melted into compounded despairs. Winterfell’s current inhabitants numbered just less than two dozen. Arya would round the number up to an even twenty-four. 

She had ridden hard to reach Winterfell. What would normally take a fortnight, she completed in ten days, riding in the dark until she or her horse were too tired or hungry to continue. It was disheartening to complete the journey, only to be met with Winterfell in such disrepair.

It was foolish to think it would have been repaired since the Boltons had been driven out, but she had wanted her return to Winterfell to feel like a return home. Her imagination had crafted a comfortable and impossible aspiration that only served to cut her deep.

She reminded herself of what Harwin had told her on the day after they had retaken Winterfell. That she wasn’t the same girl she had been when she had left home, so she couldn’t expect her home to be the same either. It was the spirit that mattered.

Harwin had died at the Wall. Only a month or two after they had spoken about what Winterfell meant to them. There were no groomsmen or stable boys to greet her as she led her horse through the broken gate. The stables hardly looked stable, but someone else had decided that the roof and walls were sturdy enough to house the horses, so Arya found an empty stall for her mare, divesting her of her saddle and brushing out her coat. She took her time with it, trying to decide how best to announce her return.

It wasn’t necessary. Halfway through the task, Meera entered through the far door, the one hanging on by a single hinge. She refilled the nearest trough with one of the large buckets she carried before catching sight of Arya.

“Arya!” She exclaimed setting down her burden before rushing to the stall where Arya stood and pulling her into an embrace. Meera hugged firmly, like she had to squeeze her to know she was really there. It worked; Arya felt grounded in a way she hadn’t during the days she was traveling alone. “When did you get back?”

“Just now,” she told her friend, “I’m glad I ran into you, I don’t know where everyone else would be otherwise.”

“Most everyone went out to Winter Town today to do some surveying, but Bran and Sansa should be in the great hall, they’ll be so glad to see you.” They walked alongside one another as Meera finished filling the troughs. The horses drank greedily, sating themselves before the still water had a chance to freeze. “I’m glad to see you too. We’ve all been, well…”

Worried. They were all worried, as if she were ill, or bed ridden. Arya sighed; she had always held firm that she didn’t want people to worry about her. Words about taking care of herself always sat high in the back of her throat, but she could admit that part of her was glad that she had been missed.

“It’s good to see you too,” Arya said. “I think I missed familiar faces.”

It was a short walk to the main keep and then the great hall. Meera seemed to always just catch herself from leading the way. A thick feeling lodged itself in Arya’s throat when she noticed. Breathing only got harder as they passed collapsed staircases, a wooden structure that had clearly been a gallows. 

The great hall was in shambles too. In her youth there were multiple long tables where the staff would sit for the meals, now there was just one. Tapestries had lined the walls depicting great and terrible tales about the First Men and the Starks; a few were missing, but most of them were slashed and torn as high up as a man’s sword arm could reach. The dais was empty, stones dug up from its edge and left about the room to make the damage more obvious. Only the hearth remained unchanged from her childhood imagination.

Sansa and Bran sat close to the roaring fire to see by its light, an impromptu desk situated between them.

“Look who I found,” Meera announced, squeezing just above her elbow. Her siblings’ eyes were already on her, having heard the door, and tentative, pleased smiles stretched their faces. Sansa got to her feet and darted over, embracing her with a much daintier hold than Meera.

She took a step back and smoothed her hair down like their mother had always done.

“How was your journey?”

“Cold, but otherwise safe and unremarkable.”

“Good,” Sansa affirmed. “We didn’t know when to expect you. Ser Gendry arrived just three days ago and seemed convinced you might be away a while.”

“I’m home now,” was all she said, refusing to explain herself or the motivations for her return further. “Where’s Rickon?” She asked to change the subject.

“In the Wolfswood. He’s there as often as possible,” Bran spoke up, looking past their sister with a tilt of his head that suggested he was expecting a hug too. She leaned down to embrace him, even kissed the top of his head. Older sister was still a role she was learning.

“We take our main meal at the end of daylight hours, and Rickon’s always hungry so you’ll see him then,” Bran continued.

“That’ll be soon,” Meera said, “the sun was setting as we were walking in.”

“Already?” Sansa sighed, rubbing at her temple. “I fear the Wall will melt before we make any sort of meaningful progress.”

“What are you working on?” Arya asked, remembering the promise she had made to learn and dedicate herself to the North. Leaning forward to glance at the papers neatly piled on the table before Bran revealed little.

“Successions,” Bran said. “With the North’s numbers so depleted, many lands are without lords. The ones that remain are most often only boys.”

Boy-Lords to match their boy-King. Arya nodded as she looked over Bran. He’d be taller than her now if he could stand, he was betrothed, and had thousands of years of history present in his head; he was mature and respected, none of their war strategies would have been effective without him. By all measures he was a man grown. It made Arya miss a childhood they had only barely shared. She swallowed down that desire; wishing for the past neglected the work of the present.

“We can’t talk about rationing or trade until we establish who is leading,” Sansa sighed. “But enough about that, let’s prepare for dinner.”

Sansa’s words were meant to be casual, not dismissive. Yet, Arya felt dismissed.

Bran wheeled himself to the head of the table, as much because he was King as because it was the only place his chair could be situated at the table. Sansa sat on the bench to his left, Meera on his right. Arya hovered, uncertain where to place herself, only to be stopped from making a decision when the cook, a woman named Olla, entered.

She carried a great pot with her and walked with ease despite its awkward bulk and weight. She was strong for her years, which numbered around seventy.

“Can one of you help me with the dishes?” She asked after setting down their meal. Arya volunteered and Olla’s eyes perked up when she recognized her. “Well come along, lass.”

Arya had only vaguely known Olla at the Wall but had always enjoyed her directness and informality. They didn’t speak as they walked to the kitchen. It was the most intact room Arya had seen thus far. The Bolton Bastard was less than the dirt on her shoes, but he hadn’t been stupid enough to destroy the place his food was prepared. It was nice to see the sturdy table she had hidden under in her youth still standing in the center of the room. With the smell of boiled potatoes in her nose and her eyes closed it felt like she was truly home.

The illusion was ruined when a stack of bowls was shoved into her arms. Never before had Winterfell’s kitchens been so empty at dinner time.

The great hall had more company when they returned with the dishes. Beth Cassel was peering into the pot with a curious nose, and a boy, younger by a year or two than Rickon, sat without patience next to her. And Rickon was there too, his back to Arya in his seat beside Sansa.

Arya set the bowls down, distracted by how long her little brother’s hair had grown in the weeks since she’d last seen him.

“Rickon,” she said, knowing better than to touch him unannounced. His head snapped to find her, his jerky movements the same as they’d been at the Wall. He shot up and held her with his too-long arms, exclaiming his excitement in his odd accent even as his words were muffled against the shoulder of her shirt.

He said he missed her, probably, and Arya repeated the sentiment. She had missed him, she had missed Bran and Sansa too, when they went south without her. She just hadn’t missed them as much as she missed Jon. Part of her knew she’d have this moment, a reunion, when she’d never have one with Jon.

The stew was portioned out, even without the majority of Winterfell’s inhabitants. Arya took the seat beside Meera. Conversation was near nonexistent as they ate until the rest of the company returned from surveying Winter Town, still bundled in wool and furs.

A middle-aged man immediately hailed Bran. He walked with a limp, and despite some familiarity in his face, Arya couldn’t name him. The thought tickled in the back of her head as she listened to him speak dire words: rubble and destruction and unsalvageable. Arya was so struck by the grey slate of Bran’s reaction that a nudge to her shoulder startled her.

It was Gendry.

He jostled the bench as he took the seat to her left, smiling all the while.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said. He took his hat off and reached for a dish so he might eat, but he kept looking back to her. It made her wish she had more to say, but the opportunity was quickly pulled away when Bran called out.

“Ser Gendry, could you give me your opinion on Winter Town?”

Gendry’s eyes linger on her a moment, telling her he wanted to talk more later.

“Of course. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s unsalvageable.” He went on to explain the worst of the damage, the street of homes that had been flattened with fire, the barren marketplace that at least still had structure. “I don’t know if we have the numbers to collect enough lumber to rebuild, but enough to repair, certainly. We didn’t go into every home, but there must be things the townsfolk left behind that we could use, tools, kitchenware, clothes.”

Bran nodded, some of the greyness leaving his face. The man with the limp didn’t look so pleased.

“Take a wagon or two with you and gather what you can either tomorrow or the day after,” Bran said. “I appreciate your attentiveness.”

It was only after these clear words of dismissal that Arya noticed conversation around the table had stopped when Gendry spoke. She was struck, not only by the deserving respect near everyone present seemed to have for him, but also by the ease with which he spoke to her siblings.

At the Wall Gendry had gained attention from important people because of who his father was. Those conversations often forced him into silence, either with harsh words from those with more power than him, or by the belief that others wouldn’t value what he had to say. To see him so comfortable and confident without having to wear his frown or dissenting eyes drew a stroke of pride through Arya.

“You must have got a lot done today,” Arya said, once conversation at the table had picked up again. Gendry shrugged.

“As much as we could with the sun up. Could use your help when we go back next.”

Arya scraped the last of her stew off bowl, savored the bite as she considered his words. She wanted to. It seemed a good way to help as any, and she wouldn’t mind spending time with Gendry. The thought of her siblings needing her held her back, though. Her spoon tapped against the rim of the bowl. Around them people began stacking up their dishes, climbing off the bench. The meal was over, but Gendry didn’t move, his eyes still on her. She was aware of it everywhere, the spot on her cheek that he was looking at tingled, and the tips of her fingers beat out her heartbeat into her palm.

“I will,” she said. “So long as Bran and Sansa don’t need me.”

Having overhead and misinterpreted the tail end of their conversation, Sansa interjected.

“Don’t be ridiculous Arya, you’ve had a long journey, you should rest.”

The sun may have set, but it was still only about midday. Arya made to protest, but Sansa continued.

“At least get settled a bit, there’s no need to jump into anything.” Her face turned solemn. “It’s been a hard couple of months.”

Sansa’s concern shone through her eyes and the gentle bow of her mouth, but it only made Arya’s brow crumple. The hard months were exactly why she should help, it wasn’t as if Sansa hadn’t suffered during the wars, hadn’t sobbed and ached when Jon died. Yet she stood from her seat with grace, hard-backed, like a plank of wood.

“But Sansa—”

“We are all sleeping in the guest house on account of the damage, you have your pick of the empty rooms.”

“I don’t need sleep, Sansa.”

“The braziers need lighting,” Gendry said beside her. “If you want to help me.”

She nodded, appreciating that Gendry knew her well enough to know that she needed to keep moving even as it frustrated her that Sansa wasn’t aware of it. Jon would have been.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Sansa said, giving the both of them that peculiar look she reserved for them, like she was trying to remember if the berry she had picked was poisonous. “Do get some rest.”

She went back to the desk by the fire and collected the parchment. Bran and Meera were the only ones left at the table, Rickon had scurried away at some point.

“Do whatever you think is best,” Bran said, speaking lowly enough that Sansa would not overhear. Arya appreciated the sentiment but not of the vagueness Bran was prone to falling into. Long years had taught her the fruitlessness of believing in songs, yet the idea of a victorious homecoming had stuck with her, only to be shattered likes so many hopes before it.

She sighed, turned to Gendry who stood behind her, and asked for flint.

* * *

The braziers burned for an empty courtyard.

They were hot, and she and Gendry lingered near their warmth, but they were the only ones.

“Where is everyone?” Arya asked.

“Trying to figure out how to fix those pipes that pump up the air from the hot springs most like.”

“They’re broken?” Arya asked, it hadn’t seemed too cold in the great hall, even with the torn tapestries letting the cold seep in.

“Damn near frigid in some places,” Gendry said, pushing back his shoulders so that they might be closer to the heat. “You’ll notice in the mornings.”

“Should we help?”

“It’s a tricky bit of masonry, by all accounts. I’d just get the in the way.” He sighed. “You’re small and nimble though, might be able to climb and reach places the others can’t. Worth asking Garren or Vardus tomorrow.”

The firelight danced in shades of orange and yellow against Gendry’s face. The fires of a forge shone similarly on him, and Arya was grateful for the comfort brought on by familiarity, even if he should have been wearing a scarf.

“Are you off to the forge then?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Haven’t been yet, actually.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t need to be making weapons and armor anymore, and it’ll be a long while before anyone needs pitchforks or ploughs or anything of that sort. Don’t have the spare iron for it anyways.”

“Do you miss it?” Arya asked, he had always seemed so at home in the forge, comfortable. Now Gendry just shrugged.

“Not really. I’m a knight, you know.” His mouth pinched into the almost-smile he wore whenever he brought that up. “I don’t need to be a smith for the rest of my days.”

For a moment she thought of that bull’s head helm that Gendry had carted around and polished with such stubborn pride in the far-gone days of their youth. He’d carried it like a talisman, or some tangible proof of his worth. Arya had never quite understood it; she hadn’t seen any need for proof. Now, neither did Gendry. He was worth more than his smithing, and he knew it as well as Arya always had. So did his peers, and so did the King.

He wouldn’t be making any swords for her brother.

“There’s more important things that need doing besides,” Gendry continued. Flexed his fingers closer to the fire. “Unless…Did _you_ wanna go to the forge?”

“Perhaps I should take up smithing then, if you’re not going to be doing it,” she tried to joke. For whatever reason, she hadn’t been expecting Gendry to laugh, so it surprised her when he did, his chuckle misting in the air in front of him, tangible proof of joy.

“You know it should be absurd, but I can picture you with a hammer in hand just fine. You could do anything you put your mind to though, huh?”

The comment was rhetorical, as if Gendry took it to be a given that she could be capable of anything. He hadn’t even been looking at her when he said it.

“Could I?”

He did look at her then. Confused and intense, with his forehead wrinkled in the way it always was when he was thinking. She felt all warm inside, like she didn’t need to stand so close to the fire.

“’Course.”

The courtyard was empty, but bright. There wasn’t a reason she and Gendry needed to linger there any longer.

“Well, we might as well go to the forge, then.”

Gendry laughed again but followed her lead without further comment.

The forge didn’t look as it had when Mikken ran it, but it wasn’t in such a state as to be unrecognizable. It was difficult to ruin a forge when so much of it consisted of hardy metal tools and sturdy stonework. Still, the anvil had been knocked over, and dust and dirt covered almost everything. There was an abandoned air to the space. Arya couldn’t help but think that grime and soot would have made it seem lived in.

“I suppose masons need hammers and chisels, don’t they?” Arya said, kneeling down to sort through a pile of abandoned tools.

“Aye,” Gendry said, stepping away from the fire once he’d sparked it to a great enough height. “Good idea.”

They went about sorting through the forsaken tools, setting aside what could be used for repairs elsewhere. It took much more effort to rearrange the anvil and the worktable. When it was done—the forge straightened, if not clean—she and Gendry sat heavily on the bench adjacent to the table. The fire went unfed and the dying embers made the room seem to shrink.

“You don’t actually want to learn to work metal, do you?” Gendry asked once his breath was caught and a moment of silence had a chance to linger between them.

“No,” she admitted. “But I want to learn _something_ useful. I just don’t know what.”

Arya’s hands fell to her thighs, the heels of her palms running up the length of them. It wasn’t cold in the forge, but it wasn’t spark-hot like the one at Castle Black had been with nine smiths hammering and sharpening and sweating. As the fire grew smaller it would only get colder. She exhaled sharply, but her breath didn’t cloud before her.

“What will you do?” She asked, “If not smith?”

Never before had they spoken of what they would do after the wars. It was still almost frightening, talking about it now. Forbidden.

Gendry must have thought the same for it took him a long minute to reply, afraid of cursing themselves alongside all mankind by hoping for a future.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But we’re alive. And together. Best to just take it day by day.”

Where once Gendry’s face had been lit up, now it fell into shades of grey and black. He wore it well. She liked how uncomplicated Gendry was, almost wise in the moments he wasn’t being stupid, and never quite aware of it.

She inched closer to him.

“I’ll do that too, then,” she said. One day of tasks at a time. The thought settled her some, but not as much as she wanted it to.

Gendry reached forward to hold her hand against her thigh, ceasing its errant bouncing and calming her more than his words or her thoughts could. She squeezed his fingers, seeking comfort in his grip like she had so many times before. Memories came, of them holding each other when they couldn’t sleep, of brushing foreheads and cheeks and lips with kisses. Of how everything would feel soft and warm for a little while when their bodies were slotted together, when she could feel his breath at her neck as he rubbed his cock against her ass and dipped a hand into her breeches.

She had missed that in the two odd months when they hadn’t been doing it. Being close to Gendry always made her feel sheltered and seen. She wanted to feel that now. He’d say yes if she asked, she knew that. Even though the only time they’d spoken about it was when he’d suggested they stop after the battle. When she had taken him into her body for the first time and he had spilt inside of her without either of them caring. He’d agree now, she knew. His thumb was tracing her knuckles.

“Gendry,” she breathed. The length of her arm was pressed into his, she turned her head to speak against his shoulder, embarrassed of words only their bodies knew how to speak. “Can we…Would you touch me?”

Her eyes were pressed closed, but even there the darkness wasn’t absolute, blue and orange sparks shifting beneath her eyes. Gendry’s free hand came up to rest on her neck, his thumb and first finger reaching up high enough to brush against the edge of her jaw, making her eyes open to tones of grey and blue.

“’Course,” he breathed, shifting so he could kiss her, close and intent. Their linked hands fell apart. Instead two of his fingers came under her sleeve and rested against the sensitive skin of her wrist.

She felt warmer than she had when standing by the brazier. Her hands went to his face to center the both of them as she moved to straddle his lap. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw loosened under her touch, his beard soft on her fingers. She kissed him with slow purpose.

Gendry matched her pace, his arms around her torso, as his mouth pressed gently against hers. His mouth travelled from her lips to her jaw to her neck and then back; they were closed-lip kisses, delicate.

There was a comforting rhythm to how his hands moved over her waist and ribs, rising to trace her breasts through her shirt. One of her hands came out from the thicket of his hair to cup his jaw, her thumb pressing down on his chin so his mouth might open up to hers.

Something surged in her when their tongues ran together, tension grabbing hold in her arms and abdomen, anticipation making her fingers flex as they ran over his back and shoulders. She could feel Gendry getting hard beneath her. Could feel his jaw tick like he might have groaned if not for all their practice at being silent in army barracks and not-so-hidden corners.

They were alone now. She was well aware of it as Gendry squeezed her ass, pulled her to rest more firmly against him, so close now that she could feel the expansion of his chest against her as he breathed. The reminder of life shot through her as strongly as the feeling brought on by his hands.

Her nipples pebbled under several layers and the heels of Gendry’s hands running over them was frustrating and nowhere near enough. So little of their flesh was bare, but she even liked the frustration; it made her blood beat heavier, forced each of her touches to be precise.

She found the soft skin at his lower back, enjoyed the way he arched into her, his mouth open and hot at her neck, the scent of his hair in her nose. His arms were around her back again, but they couldn’t get any closer than they already were. Arya tried anyway, widening her legs until her cunt lined up with Gendry in just the right way, grinding down.

It took patience to build pleasure like this. The feeling was more muted than fingers on bare flesh and deep rather than sharp and overwhelming. But they established a rhythm. He thrust up into her and she pushed back until the dampness in her underthings pressed into her clit on each pass and built heady tension in her core. They did that for a long while, never speeding up or slowing down, just keeping steady.

Her skin was sensitive, her lips, breasts, the insides of her wrists; all ached for touch. She kissed him hard and slow, her hands on his cheeks. The movement of their tongues against each other matched the rocking of their bodies. Arya felt grounded, soothed, flushed. 

They hadn’t always come when they had done this sort of thing before. It hadn’t been about that; even if she’d always liked it when she did. She was going to come now.

The tension took hold in her thighs and abdomen as her heart beat louder than the rumpling of their clothes. The line of her patience began to stretch thin, but then Gendry’s hands drew done her sides, over her hips and thighs, easing the tension and making her come. She felt soft and loose as pleasure ran through her. Felt Gendry hold her tighter. He leaned into her until the edge of the table bit into the middle of her back. His breath was hot against her lips as he ground into her, as she peppered kisses to his cheeks and nose and forehead, hands fluttering over his neck and across his shoulders. They only stopped when he shuddered against her, jaw trembling where it was pressed into the curve of her neck.

Gendry straightened them slowly, taking the time to brush her hair off her forehead.

“That what you wanted?” He asked, and Arya’s heart jumped for reasons unrelated to their previous activities. She hadn’t anticipated him wanting to talk about it.

“Yeah.”

She was still in his lap.

“And it wasn’t just—You weren’t upset before, yeah?”

“No,” she said. She hadn’t been. Unsure and unsteady, maybe, but not filled with a hollow, consuming sadness. “It just…feels good.”

“Yeah,” he said, the syllable thick and low in his throat. An aftershock shook her shoulders. Gendry was still holding her.

Sweat began to cool, sticky and uncomfortable, in the crease of her thighs, under her arms, along her spine. She imagined it was even more uncomfortable for Gendry. With slow movements she slipped off him, standing for a moment, unsure of herself.

“Are you tired?” He asked. She was relaxed, if not quite tired. She imagined she’d sleep well.

“I best rest, make Sansa happy.”

“I’ll walk to the guest house with you.”

They left the forge with the fire asleep. Gendry, feeling bashful, walked behind her and trusted her to know the way.

The guest hall, despite almost a month of use, still smelt like dust. Gendry explained that all the rooms on the first floor were claimed, standing beside his own door. They both hesitated, broken apart by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

It was Rickon, his hair messier than it had been at dinner.

“Rickon?” She called, taking a step towards her brother as he stomped to the bottom step. “Are you going to bed?”

“I can’t sleep,” he bit out. “Shaggy won’t come inside.”

Arya remembered sleeping curled against Nymeria in the Riverlands, how her wolf broke habits just to spend the night next to her. That had been before the Wall, where the pack would have starved and risen again. There she had started sleeping next to Gendry instead, and it had been better. A human breath at her neck, a human hand over her belly, and Nymeria to run with behind her eyes.

“I can sleep in your room if you want,” she said. “And you can run with Shaggy in your sleep.”

Her brother considered it for a long minute before nodding once, sharp and sullen. Then turned on his heel to go upstairs.

“Goodnight, Arya,” Gendry said behind her. She turned over her shoulder and smiled, without having to force it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she promised, and then followed Rickon upstairs. He was already under the covers, face buried into a pillow when she made it to the right room.

She was quick to splash water on herself and change before sliding under the covers next to him. She stroked over his hair, like their mother had done. Then pressed her cold toes into his shins and watched him squirm.

Rickon kicked and squirmed and growled in his sleep, but he slept.

When Arya did, she dreamt she was running on four feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Stark communication and masonry next chapter, promise


	3. Company by the Hearth Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rebuilding begins to take shape as Arya reacquaints herself with Winterfell and its people.

One day Arya would wake, and the sun’s rays would pierce through the slats of the window shutters and songbirds would harken the dawn.

That day was a long way off.

Her morning began with Rickon knocking against the bedframe, cursing as he rubbed the blooming bruises on his hip. He laced his boots in the dark before being chased by Sansa’s reprimands as he slipped down the hall just as she entered the room. 

Sansa came with a short pile of extra clothes for her, including a pair of thick woolen socks that tied off at her mid-calf and felt luxurious in comparison to her threadbare pair that saw her through thousands of miles and the darkest night.

“You can come along with me on my morning routine, if you wish,” Sansa offered as Arya tucked away her new long-sleeved shift alongside her well-worn shirts in favor of the new, if slightly ill-fitted, tunic and coat. 

“What are you doing?” Arya asked, thinking of Gendry’s suggestion to help with the piping.

“Off to the kitchens first, then delivering some food to Ser Brienne in her convalescence. Following that I’ll use the daylight hours to treat with Bran and recover what I can from the library and Maester’s turret.”

Arya hadn’t seen Brienne since she was cocooned in the back of a cart, preparing to be taken back to Winterfell despite several healers’ insistence that travel would only bring her more harm. It would be good to see her again, to see someone healing.

Breakfast consisted of a cup of warm broth and a boiled egg that Arya took sweet time to peel the shell off of as Sansa pressed Olla with questions of Rickon’s whereabouts. With questions unanswered, Sansa carried a hearty mug of the thick broth back to the guest house, knocking on the first door at the right.

In contrast to the deep browns and greys of the furniture and stone walls, Ser Brienne looked like a bit of persistent, unmelting snow. The only color on her face was the red and pink scarring on her cheek; even her hair looked more white than blonde. Her eyes, at least, were a clear blue when they fluttered open to see her and Sansa.

“Princess Arya,” she said softly. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Ser Brienne. You look far better than last I saw you.” She was able, at least, to make herself sit partially upright and had healed from the bruising that had marred her skin after the battle. Despite the small improvements Arya doubted that a peak under the bandages across her belly would gain a positive review of health.

“I do feel stronger,” she said, accepting the warm cup from Sansa with quiet thanks. “Even if I’ll be bedridden for quite a bit longer.”

Arya sat at the foot of the bed, rearranging the furs so that Brienne’s feet wouldn’t escape. They didn’t have beds long enough for Brienne’s frame, especially when she had to sleep straight on her back, lest she aggravate her wounds.

“Do your stiches itch terribly?” Sansa asked, standing next to Brienne and taking a comb to her hair. It had grown out quite a lot since Arya had first met her—better to keep her ears and neck warm at the Wall—but she could sense discomfort in the way Brienne’s chin ticked as the comb teased through knots.

“Yes, but I’ve been told that’s a sign of the skin growing, so I won’t complain about it.” If anyone had the self-discipline to avoid succumbing to irritants it was Ser Brienne.

“And is there anything else you need?” Sansa asked, finishing the task of brushing out Brienne’s hair. It looked more properly yellow now. Brienne continued to drink the warm broth as she considered.

“Tomorrow, perhaps, a bucket and rag to wash with, but nothing else for now.”

Sansa smiled, and made to leave after promising to return in the evening. Arya was stuck looking at Brienne. The placidness in her face, the obvious discontent in her shoulders. There was nowhere she needed to be in particular at the moment.

“I’ll sit with you a while longer,” Arya said, “I know if I was bedridden I’d want the company.”

“My Lady, you don’t—”

“Not a word,” Arya interrupted, climbing off the bed to take the room’s only chair.

Sansa lingered for a moment longer, looking between the two of them, a smile in her eyes. She said a few words about letting Brienne get enough sleep, but was ultimately drawn away by whatever plans she had with Bran for the day.

“You know, you’re allowed to be frustrated that you’re stuck in bed,” Arya said. “Especially for this long.”

“I’m happy to be alive when so many others aren’t,” Brienne said, setting down her empty mug with a quiet sigh. Brienne had lost people too. The sweet squire, who couldn’t say a sentence straight, the Kingslayer, if any of those crude rumors were to be believed. Yet she was still so noble, so fair. Arya sometimes wondered if she’d ever had a selfish thought at all, and if she had, how she never let it slip from her skull.

“No, really,” Arya insisted, scooting forward in the chair, then swallowing thickly. “I’m frustrated all the time, and I can move about.”

“I suppose I am,” Brienne said, after a moment of consideration, “But I know this is the only way I’ll heal.”

“What about after you heal?” Arya found herself asking. “You won’t have to fight anymore.”

Brienne didn’t seem daunted by this prospect in the same way Arya was. One of the best swordsman in Seven Kingdoms and she didn’t seem to miss that there was no longer a need for her to swing her sword.

“Well, being a knight isn’t about fighting, really,” Brienne said after a moment of quiet thinking. “And I swore to protect you and your sister. I imagine my responsibilities will be different, but I’m glad to have the chance to take them on at all.” She rearranged the sheets and furs over herself before settling her hands on her lap. “I would like to see my father again though.”

Arya balanced the heel of one of her boots on the edge of the chair, hugging her knee to herself, comforted by Brienne’s simple abscondence of conflict. She changed the subject, asking instead about Tarth.

Brienne settled deeper against her pillows and told her about the blue of the Sapphire Isle, how she learned to swim and sail, about the people who were kind to her, her father most of all.

It reminded her of her own father, his exasperated but fond smiles. Her chest used to hurt whenever she thought of him, but it had been years since that cursed, clear afternoon in King’s Landing. She could listen to Brienne talk about her first sword lesson now, and remember Ned and Syrio with a soft smile on her face. It would be like that one day with the memory of Jon giving her Needle. Something to smile softly at instead of a kick in the gut.

But now, with an aching chest captured with the memory of her brother’s smile and arms circled around her, she sat with the pain for a moment. Then swallowed, and asked Brienne if they had cockles on Tarth. The pair of them spoke fondly of seafood and sandbars until the fire began to grow dim.

Arya moved to sit by the hearth then, nursing the dying coals with precise blows until it grew enough to return light and warmth to the room. Although by then the sun was rising, creeping through the shutter slats.

“Thank you for your company, I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and your sister is attentive, but otherwise I’ve been…lonely.”

“I enjoy your company too,” Arya affirmed. While she had admired Brienne since their initial meeting, they’d never gotten any opportunity to speak at any length. Arya was glad to see that they might build a true friendship. “We can sit together again tomorrow.”

They bid each other farewell, and Arya opened the shutters to let a bit more light in on her way out.

* * *

The hot springs below Winterfell were damaged like everything else, the stone edging around the natural pools broken off or missing, water seeping out. But the pools were still clean, still steaming. Nature was undeterred by human destruction. 

She met with Garren, a competent mason whose blond hair was already turning silver at the root, and Vardus, a man who had served at the Dreadfort and had participated in tearing it down, stone by stone. She interrupted their complaining with an offer of assistance. The two men took no joy from explaining the problem to her. 

“You can see the entrances there,” Garren said, pointing at the ceiling, were a series of holes the size of her closed fist was positioned. “The steam rises and enters the piping. I assume all those openings connect to some bigger one. We’re assumin’ that its broken near the source since there’s no heat anywhere in the Great Keep.”

“We’d get a ladder for a closer look, but as you can see,” Vardus said with a sweep of his hand to the pool. “Noting to put it on.” Indeed, the openings were positioned directly over the water.

“Bran the Builder really didn’t account for us plain folk,” Garren said with a huff. Arya gave a nod. It was obvious enough to figure how the Guest House was heated, with it running adjacent to the pool in the Godswood, while the one beneath the Glass Gardens was so deep as to be inaccessible. This was far more complicated.

“I could try climbing up there,” Arya said, the ceiling was sloped, it wasn’t impossible. And if she fell it would into a pool of warm water. She could sense the two men blinking at her in shock, but she wasn’t looking at them, she was looking for footholds.

“You’re a mad lass, Princess.”

She forced a grin but didn’t comment on either of those titles.

The stones at the edges of the room were slick with condensation, as if it wouldn’t be hard enough to climb to the ceiling. Bran would have loved the challenge a decade or so ago. She’d do it successfully, so he could live vicariously through her when she told him about it at dinner.

After circling the room twice to map out the best route she approached on the left, scaling the wall with care and always testing her handholds twice.

It wasn’t very high, truthfully, about fifteen feet at its greatest height, and it wasn’t difficult to scale on the vertical walls, but as the surface began to slope her arms began to strain. Balance and agility were long since practices she had mastered, but they did not make her task easy.

There was a large, protruding stone at the place where the wall and ceiling hinged that allowed her to rest some of her weight and relax the strain off her arms. From that point she could reach the first of the openings, slipping her hand halfway into the hole. The texture was odd. Not gritty and rough like the stones she was braced against, but smooth, soft even. Some sort of metal.

It was suspended, with stone surrounding it. She pinched the edge between her fingers and gave it a shake, causing something to rattle further up. She gave it a tug, expecting to encounter some resistance only for part of it to break off in her hand. The release of force nearly sent her tumbling. Her heartbeat spiked, her muscles seized, and the pressure of her grip against the stone sent an ache into her fingernails. She adjusted her one-handed grip as much as she could, using the rush of adrenaline that pulled heavy in her stomach to press her body against the wall until she settled some.

“Catch!” She grunted, throwing the piece of metal in the general direction of Garren and Vardus before repositioning herself using both her hands. Once her breathing was even she found it much easier to get back down, even if she could still feel the pulse of her heartbeat in her lips and fingertips.

“You alright there?” Garren asked once her feet were on solid ground.

“Fine,” she said. She liked the way her blood was singing and with her feet on solid ground, standing next the piece of retrieved metal she felt a sense of accomplishment.

“Was right impressive,” Garren said, seeming to waffle between being afraid or being awed before turning his attention to the material at hand.

“What is it?” Vardus asked, inspecting the fragment.

“Not stone,” Garren said. “I don’t know.”

Arya didn’t either, at first glance. It couldn’t have been iron, for it would have rusted easily from the dampness of the room. Nor did it have the color of copper or brass.

“I’ll ask Ser Gendry,” she said. “He’ll know.”

* * *

“It’s lead,” Gendry said. He had spent his morning fixing an axel on one of the carts they’d need to take to Winter Town tomorrow but had been happy to spare a few minutes to come down to the hot springs for her. “Makes sense, it melts easy and is easy to shape. Crap for a sword, but for a pipe…” His eyes shone with curiosity, impressed, as was Arya, with the innovation of her ancestors.

“Could you fix it?” Garren asked.

“In the forge, sure. But up there?” He shook his head.

The four of them frowned in silence. Arya had really hoped that her efforts would push them towards being able to fix the issue. Now they knew more but were at as much of a loss.

“Better off insulating the outside walls then. ‘Specially if more storms are coming,” Garren said, shrugging the defeat off and collecting his cloak before leaving, Vardus not far behind him.

“So what now?” Arya asked, of both herself and Gendry. “It’s never fixed?”

“Fix other things in the meantime,” Gendry said. “I think that’s what Garren meant. Gods know that there’s a lot that needs rebuilding.”

There was no doubt that he was right, but Arya still felt as if it was giving up too easily. There was grit and grey under her fingernails and nothing else to show for it. Sensing her frustration, Gendry continued.

“And you helped point them in the right direction for now. They’d still be down here bickerin’ if you hadn’t come down along.”

She remembered Gendry, trying to find a way to forge Dragonglass at the Wall, his grunts of frustration and the shattered material. It had taken days and dozens of attempts before he figured out it couldn’t be smelted at all. Days that would have been better spent chipping at the raw stone in a way that worked. Climbing up the walls like a ship rigger had been the opposite of a waste of time.

“You’re right,” she sighed, giving herself a nod of motivation. Winterfell wasn’t built in a day, it wouldn’t be rebuilt in one either.

“You should say that more often,” Gendry jested shooting her a grin.

“You should give me reason to,” she shot back, then squatted by the water to clean her hands and splash her face. “Better find something else to do, then.”

* * *

Something to do constituted carting loose stones. With no quarries running, and trade standing still they needed to repurpose everything. It was a priority to collect all the materials they could before the next major snowfall. Arya was one of ten collecting and moving building stones around the South and East Gates.

She worked with the boy who had been eager for diner the day before. His name was Ramil, and he bragged of being the apprentice to both Garren and the carpenter, Pickett, as well as the King’s messenger. He was the fastest person Arya had ever met to walk on a clubfoot and had enough words for an entire murmurs’ troop. Arya liked his enthusiasm and easy nature. Orphan boys, in her experience, were generally not so upbeat. She wondered if she could encourage him and Rickon to become friends.

All the manual labor made her eager for dinner, and though the soup was in need of salt it brought her comfort. A feeling that was compounded when she told Bran of her climbing over the hot springs and he laughed and insisted that he had scaled the walls there too, thirteen odd years ago.

“Amateur’s play, really,” he said with the humor that had been so hard to find since their reunion. It was a short-lived smile, but one nonetheless, and made the meal heartier.

She and Sansa didn’t get much of an opportunity to chat because she left the meal early to attend to Brienne, but Meera asked her to come along and attend to the horses.

There was nothing to enjoy about shoveling shit, but brushing out coats and arranging the tack was soothing after a day full of lifting and pushing even if they only had one torch to see by.

The moon was high and nearly full when she snuck into bed beside Rickon. He had been at dinner for only minutes before running off again. Arya couldn’t help but think of how harshly her mother’s reprimands would be had she ever skipped out of a meal like that. Not that it had ever happened; mealtimes had always been her favorite time of day. It made her wonder why Rickon was so insistent on roaming outside of Winterfell at every opportunity.

He continued to be a rowdy sleeper and didn’t wake or sooth when she stroked his arm. Turned away from her instead.

* * *

The next morning she layered her clothes and met the party at the stables. The seven of them were heading into Winter Town, and despite all of them volunteering It was clear that everyone was near asleep on their feet. Conversation amounted to little more than affirmative grunts or mumbled instruction.

The tasks were completed quickly, and they left Winterfell with the sky still dark. Winter Town wasn’t so far that it necessitated traversing by horseback, but it was good to give the animals some exercise.

With her mind still fogged with tiredness she thought of little except for guiding her horse. In front of her, Pickett hefted a torch and the sky was taking on grey tones. Still, there wasn’t enough light that she could lax her attention, lest her mare misstep into a ditch. 

At first, she didn’t realize when they had reached Winter Town, for there wasn’t much to differentiate it from the surrounding countryside when her eyes were focused on the ground in the dark. It was only when she recognized the broken roof of the clock tower that she realized she stood in what had once been a bustling town. So much of it was now flattened.

“Best to keep moving,” Pickett said, noticing her stillness, but she couldn’t quite make herself. 

Winterfell was strong, with high walls, and constructed of granite and heavy-set stones. And still it had succumbed to siege and fire. Winter Town had none of those protections, its destruction was near wholesale.

“It’s terrible,” Gendry said, riding up beside her. She felt stuck on the Wall again, standing watch with nothing to see.

“Aye,” Arya agreed. Her fingers were growing numb so she curled them tighter around the reigns. “So many good people lived here. And more always came in winter, farmers and villagers who would have frozen otherwise.”

Their seasonal homes no longer stood for them now. How many people were scattered across the North without a proper house or hearth fire?

“If they come there’s plenty of room in the castle,” Gendry said. True enough, but there wasn’t anyone telling them to come, and news that the Starks held Winterfell once more travelled slow if it was not caught totally frozen. “Come on,” he continued, “There’s more to see.”

Gendry urged his horse forward and without even a tug of the reigns, hers followed.

Arya was glad to move forward. As the sky grew lighter and skimmed the horizon, she could make out a few lines of houses, roofs covered in snow, walls in ice. They were shells of houses, like the casings of roasted chestnuts.

After tying the horses and situating the cart near the middle of the small neighborhood, they split into groups to search the homes and recover what they could, a torch for each of them. Beth and Meera went together, then Pickett with the two other men so that they had four hands all together. Gendry held a torch as they ducked into one of the houses. She expected to hear the scurrying of rats as they entered, but it was silent.

There was coarse kitchenware that they collected, and a trunk that held swaddling for a babe next to infant’s shoes. Gendry suggested leaving the trunk.

“Wouldn’t fit anyone in the castle.”

“But it might,” Arya said, running a thumb over the soft, dry wool. “Don’t you know wars are great for making babies? Well, when they’re done anyway.” She shut the lid of the trunk, indicating that he lift the other side. But Gendry was looking at her all odd, his face all orange and pink in the firelight. The longer he looked at her, unblinking, the more a fire grew under her own face. They had no reason to be all flustered. It wasn’t as if they had made a baby after the war was over. Just done what was necessary for it.

She didn’t need to be thinking about Gendry and babies.

“Or maybe a widow will come with a lil one,” she continued, setting her eyes back on the closed trunk. “Come on. There’s more to do.”

The second house they went into had more to collect, like it had been left in a hurry, with only the most valuable things taken away. She and Gendry folded up bedsheets and blankets, collected a cauldron and fire poker, as well as a stool and chair. Knives and a pair of winter boots were all tucked into the back of the cart, rearranged with Beth’s careful direction so it would all fit.

Arya stood at the threshold of the second home, eyes sharp in search of anything she or Gendry might have missed. The only thing present—besides the too-heavy bed—was a flowerpot situated by the shuttered window. Soil still filled it, but whatever had grown in it was long since dead and shriveled. It made sense to leave it. It was just a pot of dirt; but she heard Gendry coming up behind her—no doubt set on asking her if she was ready to go—and she shot forward to collect the little pot.

When she was back in Winterfell, after unloading all the items from Winter Town and finishing her dinner, she picked out a room for herself on the second floor of the guest house and set the little flowerpot in the window.

* * *

Her days at Winterfell began to take on a bit of routine after that. In the mornings she would sit with Brienne and they would talk of the rebuilding process, or an odd dream, or what summer would be like. They didn’t speak of the wars, but sometimes Brienne spoke with fondness of her acquaintance with her mother even as she was circumspect in never mentioning Lady Stoneheart.

Sometimes they didn’t have anything to talk about, but Arya would help Brienne wash or hold her arm as they took a turn about the room. It was nice to speak of trite things and to sit and relax before taking on the burden of the day.

She could be found wherever an extra pair of hands were needed. One day she worked with Meera, watering the horses and mucking out the stables. The next she split logs for firewood, cleared ash from the braziers and fireplaces. She went with the hunters to set and check traps, plucked potatoes from the ground in the glass gardens, and collected eggs from the hen house with the beak marks to show for it.

After dinner most das she would catalogue what was done and what needed doing with Meera. She deferred to Arya in most cases, even though she would be Lady of Winterfell one day. When Arya had mentioned the future responsibility, Meera had brushed off the concern.

“Neither of us are much of ladies,” she said, “I like to think we’re both learning.”

Certainly nothing they were doing was anything her lady mother had ever undertaken, but the times were different, and she and Meera were changing what it meant to be a lady.

Bran was learning too, sending ravens around the North and even warging them himself when he feared they wouldn’t make the trip. On nights when sleep felt far away, she would sit with her brother in the Godswood, once Rickon was there too, scampering around, but on those few nights it was usually just her and Bran. They didn’t talk much, if at all. The place was too holy for teasing, and any reminisces of their father, or Jon felt heavier than a heart could handle.

She just liked sitting close to Bran and making sure he wasn’t lonely.

Before she retired. she always knocked on Gendry’s door. No matter her well-earned exhaustion or the pounding in her temple. Telling him about her day felt good, even if they spent most of it together. It was easy to tell him about the ache in her shoulders, or how sometimes the beat of Needle against her thigh as she walked made her want to cry. Gendry would nod and tell her why Jonah had annoyed him or what joke from Ramil pried a laugh out of him. They spoke of how Beth managed to find (or manufacture) gossip, even with so few of them within Winterfell’s walls and if the weather would hold for much longer. He would kiss her goodnight, and it felt sweet and uncomplicated.

* * *

A week and a half since her return home, she awoke cold, with the memory of a frozen bite and icy eyes. The smell of snow was in the air. The sky too blue and the air too still.

Arya caught sight of Meera, also looking heavenward, as she moved through the courtyard.

“A big storm do you think?” Meera asked as they walked together towards the glass gardens. Arya exhaled heavily, her breath clouding even through the barrier of her scarf. There hadn’t been a truly horrible storm since the Others were defeated, but even the summer storms of her childhood had been formidable at times.

“Best to prepare as if it will be.”

She and Meera spent their time digging up potatoes and radishes as clouds began to roll in, white wisps that eventually knit together to form a grey blanket that darkened even as the sun ascended higher.

The snow hadn’t started falling when they delivered the produce to the kitchens, but it was only a matter of time. Everyone was rushing about, double checking that all the doors were enforced, that the horses had enough grain, that the guest house was stocked with blankets and extra tinder boxes.

It was the most subdued dinner Arya had seen since she’d returned to Winterfell, all anyone could talk about was the weather. No one partook in after dinner chores, the pots remained dirty as they moved back to the guest house for an early sleep. A few flurries caught on Arya’s eyelashes during the short walk.

The room she’d taken for herself was bare and cold, even after she’d encouraged the fire to roar. The sheets, too, were chill enough to force her to tuck her knees to her chest. The sleeves of her new shift were pulled down to wrap around her hands, her toes in her thick socks cramping as they curled tightly.

She hadn’t wanted to take a room for herself. But everyone else seemed pleased to have a bed to themselves. It was only her who needed company in sleep. 

Particularly now, with the weather so vexed and the aches in her body exacerbated with the cold. Arya rubbed at the knot of tension on the base of her neck, but the pressure of her fingers only made her squirm. She imagined warmer hands, pushing the aches away from her arms and back and feet, from over her brow and between her legs. Her palms couldn’t usher away the ache in her chest, the one that called out for company. 

She got out of bed. Gendry was only just downstairs.

Arya knocked twice and entered swiftly when she heard Gendry call out in greeting.

Gendry’s room was much like hers, only smaller, warmer. It looked like someone actually spent time there, his cloak and hat and gloves thrown over the bench by the fire, scraps of metal and paper left on his bedside table next to candle stumps.

There was no burning candle now, but the hearth fire must have lit up her silhouette enough to be distinctive in the open doorframe, for Gendry called out to her by name.

“What are you doing here, Arya?”

“I’m cold,” she said. The words sounded childish in the open air and her jaw tightened in the hope that Gendry wouldn’t notice.

“Well don’t just stand in the hall like that then, idiot.”

Gendry’s hearth fire was stoked and warm and didn’t waver even when the shutters rattled. She passed by it slowly on her way to the far side of Gendry’s bed. When she was close enough her skin absorbed the heat of it like a bit of woolen cloth.

It was warmer still in Gendry’s bed, the furs and blankets already cozy from the heat of his body, and his chest alive and beating against her back.

“The bed’s too big and empty,” she told him, not expecting Gendry to chuckle against the top of her head but enjoying it anyway.

“Only you’d complain about a bed being too big,” Gendry said. “Forget you’re a princess?”

Arya kicked back then, her heel connecting with his shin, but it just made Gendry hold her closer, his head dropping to the part of her neck exposed over the blankets. A smile was pressed into her skin.

Arya huffed, but let herself settle more firmly against him. “I just felt alone,” she admitted.

Jon used to tease her with tales of how she would climb into bed with him or Robb or Sansa was she was very little and afraid of thunder. Arya had no memory of it, but now she didn’t find it so hard to believe.

“Well, if nothing else, the storm will make us hunker down. You won’t be able to feel alone with all of us stuck inside.”

Gendry stroked circles over her stomach. She wished she was wearing a tunic so that he could lift up the fabric and touch her bare skin, but the straight skirt of the shift was tangled between both their legs. Still, it felt tender.

“For now I just want to be with you.”

She curled her free hand behind her so that she could run it through Gendry’s hair.

“Did you want to talk about something else?” He murmured, his hand rising higher up over her ribs.

She considered telling him about the aches that had ushered her to his bed, but they didn’t feel so heavy when she was in his arms. Least of all when his hand was running over her breast, landing so that the center of his palm rested against the place her heart beat.

“No,” she breathed. Then, shifting so that she lay flat on her back, she brought the hand tangled in his hair down to cup his face. Gendry didn’t hesitate to kiss her. 

Slow and careful, he braced himself on one forearm next to her rather than above her. Even with space between them it was warm and close, his mouth sweet. His free hand skimmed across her sides, barely. Enough to make her shiver. She didn’t know warmth could do that, make her skin buzz with aliveness rather than as a way to stave off frostbite. She didn’t let Gendry pull way from her. Both her arms wrapped around his neck.

Outside the wind was flying with a rush that let her practically hear the cold. Until Gendry’s fingertips ran up the slope of her neck like a trickle of water running backwards and she gasped against his mouth, the blood rushing in her ears louder than anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hated me, but that's okay bc i figured it out and was able to include the bit about lead piping! That's what the Romans did for their pipes, but was lost to the Saxons, so it seemed a fitting parallel for First Men -> our protags, and its only piping air and not water so less toxic! (Don't tell me if the engineering of this is implausable, I'm a history major who's having fun). Anyway hope you enjoy this update!


	4. Roll the Dice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside Winterfell a storm rages, within its walls Arya experiments with daring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops this took longer than expected! Enjoy <3

Perhaps it was a powerful strike of wind that woke her, or some instict in her body that warned her to fear freezing. Whatever the cause, she woke the first night of the storm far too early. There was no way to determine the time, but she hadn’t moved since she’d fallen asleep, still curled up next to Gendry. It was as if she had blinked; not a hair on her head had drifted. The fire was still beating.

She laid there, trying to remember what the splash of rain on stone sounded like. Snow, even guided by a commanding wind, always landed silently. She listened to Gendry’s breathing instead, it was slow and even. His eyes were moving behind their lids and she hoped he was dreaming of nice things.

Logic would tell her to sleep some more, but it felt far off. As did the world outside this room, this bed. She didn’t feel the restless urge to move and stalk like she normally did when sleep eluded her. It was like a dream, one absent of a rude awakening.

When Gendry shifted awake beside her, some unknown handful of minutes later, it still felt like a dream.

“Is it morning?” He asked, his voice dry. He sat up, drinking from a canteen at his bedside.

“I don’t know,” she said, “Listen.”

They both did, listening to the ringing of wind through Winterfell’s walls. Gendry slunk beneath the covers again.

“What do you think we’ll be doing today then?”

“I might bother Bran.” It would a bit of fun to correct his maths in the ledgers. “And Rickon.” 

“No lie in?”

“That’s what we’re doing now, stupid.” It was more fond than accusatory. Gendry huffed, but he still stretched his arm out so she could cushion her head against it.

This storm was different. At the Wall, storms were a source of stress. They disguised the enemy, slowed transportation, and worsened both ills and moral. Now it was a sort of break. A moment to breathe, a reminder to let her posture relax. She let herself sink into the bedding and into Gendry.

He sighed with contentment and let his eyes shut. He didn’t fall asleep again, but Arya couldn’t help but notice how happy he looked. She let the back of her knuckles stroke over his chest. Maybe she could ask him to slip his shirt off. It was warm enough, and she wanted to feel the tickle of his chest hair, hear how his breath would change if she licked at his nipple.

As she constructed a fantasy in her head, Gendry took hold of her hand and wove his fingers through hers. It took her a slow moment to realize he was looking at her. All serious.

“…Can I ask you a question?”

She felt her brow twitch, suspicion twisting the shape of her mouth. Gendry either came out and said exactly what he thought or didn’t say anything at all. The dreaminess of the morning dissipated like mist in sunlight. She pulled away and braced herself up on one elbow to get the full picture of his face. Only for his gaze to slip off her. She knew, before she answered, that she had waited too long in providing a response. 

“’Course,” she said anyway, but Gendry was already shaking his head.

“Never mind.” He tried to add some levity to his words, but they were straightforward. He was like an actor who peaked through the curtain, saw the audience, and quit the entire performance.

“What? No, tell me.”

“It was silly,” he shook his head. “Not important.”

He smiled, but it didn’t catch in his eyes. Stiffly, he threw off the covers and sat up with his back to her. Shuffled around as he added on layers and slipped on his boots with aired nonchalance.

“Where are you going, then?” She asked, hoping to catch him in his false pretense.

“Stretch my legs,” he said. As if he hadn’t been advocating for a lie in moments ago.

Seeing some of the concern on her face, Gendry hesitated and walked over to press a kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Nothing more was said. Arya watched him leave, and while he didn’t seem angry with her, he didn’t seem happy either. Resigned maybe, for reasons he didn’t want to share. Perhaps they should have talked about sharing a bed again. Storms were different now that the war was over, it followed that their closeness might be too.

A lazy part of her considered staying in his bed without him, but she didn’t want to cause a fuss if anyone saw her emerge from his room alone. So she left the warm covers, intending to return to her own chambers before everyone else was up.

Except Rickon was in her room.

“Where were you?” He pouted, sitting on the edge of the tidy bed. It was obvious it hadn’t been slept in, but that wasn’t something Rickon would notice. 

“…Stretching my legs,” she said, slipping at the game of faces, her thoughts still with Gendry. Rickon nodded, not really concerned with her response, but rather with what he had been waiting to tell her. 

“I wanna go outside but it’s all awful and cold.”

“You were outside!” She reached forward and found that his curls were damp. “Hells, Rickon it’s a blizzard, why’d you do that?”

He frowned. “Don’t yell at me. Shaggy’s out there.”

“I wasn’t yelling,” she said, mindful not to raise her voice this time. “And Shaggy’s a direwolf. He has lots of thick fur, and he’s been in worse storms before and been fine.”

Rickon looked as if he didn’t believe her. She sat next to him on the edge of the bed.

“I know you love Shaggy,” she said, even when the word love didn’t fit right. Whatever she felt for Nymeria—the deep, soulful sameness—didn’t feel like love, but it was as close as she could come; she knew Rickon felt the same for his direwolf. “But why are you always leaving Winterfell? Don’t you want to spend time here?”

“It’s not right,” Rickon said, crossing his arms as his blue eyes took on a stormy bearing. “The woods aren’t wrong, but it’s wrong here.”

Something lifted in Arya’s chest.

“Do you remember what Winterfell was like before?”

At the Wall he hadn’t remembered any of them except Bran. And the wolves. He had known Nymeria’s name but not her own. If he could remember something, anything, of the Winterfell from before…She desperately wanted that for him.

“It was louder,” Rickon said slowly. “People laughed more. I remember because when it was me and Osha it wasn’t loud except when Shaggy growled.”

“It’ll be like that again,” Arya said, poking his shoulder in the hope that he would look her in the eye. He struggled with that, always thinking eye contact was a threat. “That’s why we’re rebuilding, so people can live here again.”

“It won’t be the same,” Rickon said. His eyes flitted between her own and the empty fireplace; they were still too big for his face. Hunger and war could pick childishness out of the skin like a splinter, make a child a killer, or wise beyond their years, but still some things remained.

“No,” Arya agreed, “it won’t be the same, but it can still be good and strong.”

“And loud,” Rickon added.

“And loud.” She smiled, then stood and readied herself for the rest of the day. Rickon stayed on her bed, swinging his legs as she finished brushing and plaiting her hair. “I was going to go help Bran while we wait out the storm,” she said, “you’re welcome to come along.”

“I already saw Bran, he’s making eyes at Meera.”

Arya hummed.

“That doesn’t mean we aren’t welcome.”

Then she opened the door, and beckoned Rickon to follow her.

* * *

Her brother and Meera sat by the fire in his room, Bran reading aloud from a hefty tome, some maester’s dull work on plant and soil types of the North.

“Excuse the intrusion,” Arya said as she entered, settling herself on a soft looking place on the rug, all the chairs occupied. “I’m saving Meera from that drivel.”

“And here I thought Rickon didn’t want to sit with us,” Meera said, teasing him even as she urged him into the room with a nod.

Bran continued reading as Rickon plopped down beside her, legs akimbo. His voice was smooth, and it occurred to her with a jolt that she had missed the age where she might tease him for its cracks. Arya’s eyes drifted to Rickon, tugging on the loose ends of the rug; she wouldn’t miss it for him.

For all of Arya’s halfhearted complaints, and Rickon’s obvious disinterest, they learned a lot about Northern horticulture, and it became clear enough to Arya how it was meant to inform them on how to go about restructuring the farming of the North. She paid attention, glad to be learning something new.

“Quick to see it isn’t drivel?” Bran said before turning a page, teasing in his eyes. It was easy bait to rise to, but Arya was firm in her seriousness.

“I do want to help you rule the North you know.”

Bran didn’t look so much shocked as pleased, as if she had finally parsed together the answer to a riddle he had solved the whole time. He started back on his reading with a more spirited attitude. 

Sansa joined them about a half hour later, settling herself on the trunk at the foot of the bed. The company of all her siblings should have eased her, but as Bran’s voice began to strain from use, all she could notice was what was missing. Sansa kept twisting and folding her handkerchief and Rickon tapped his foot incessantly. Arya thought she was the only one of her siblings who had mastered stillness, but even she had a thumb on Needle’s handguard, pushing the blade an inch out of its scabbard before sliding it back in, over and over.

Sansa took notice, her gaze steady on the side of Arya’s face. She turned to meet her sister’s gaze, wondering if she was thinking of Jon too. Or Robb, maybe, gone from them now for so many years.

“I’m glad we’re getting to spend time together like this,” Sansa said, during a pause Bran had taken to clear his throat. “There were many times I thought it would never happen.”

None of them really knew how to respond to that, except in slow nods of agreement.

“Just to be in Winterfell again…” Sansa continued, tucking her handkerchief back into her sleeve. “It makes me glad, despite everything.”

“It was what we all fought and sacrificed for,” Meera said, in a wise voice. It was with a jolt of guilt that Arya remembered Meera’s brother was dead too, that the room had a certain emptiness for all of them, for anyone who still breathed in the North. “I’m glad to be here too.”

“I’m glad you’re going to be my sister, Meera,” Arya said, feeling it an important affirmation. For a moment she thought to tease Bran about his betrothed being too good for him, but her little brother was smiling down at her, something too precious to sully.

“Likewise,” Meera said. Arya bent her leg against her chest, burying her smile in her knee. Winterfell was strengthening, but it was the first time that Arya felt that her pack was growing as well.

They were all surprised when there was a knock on the door from Olla, telling them that they were going to trek over to the kitchens to eat their meal. Arya wasn’t bothered by the disturbance, she was looking forward to breaking bread with everyone.

* * *

All of them (save Bran and Brienne) bowed their heads and trudged their way to the kitchens. Her teeth were chattering by the time they were inside, her cloak liberally dusted with snow. There was space enough for all of them, but it felt cramped when they stood shoulder-to-shoulder and front-to-back around the high kitchen fire. Olla muttered obscenities to all of them about being underfoot, even when they offered their services chopping vegetables or stirring pots.

They all ate standing up, and Arya listened as some of the others complimented the cooking and aired their complaints. Despite her conversation with Olla about their supplies and how the storm might affect rationing, her eyes kept drifting to Gendry, standing over the precipice of conversation, eating at a snail’s pace.

After making mental notes to have more of their stores transferred to easy reach of the kitchen, she took her final bite and maneuvered herself so that she could knock Gendry’s elbow with her own.

“Answers to the world’s questions aren’t at the bottom of your bowl,” she said, and Gendry’s eyes dropped to his stew as if to double check, the stupid man.

“I know that.”

“Alright,” she said. “You’re just seem surlier than usual.”

“’M not surly,” he mumbled against his spoon. It was a rich sentiment coming from Gendry, who took great pleasure in not talking to people. She didn’t know who he thought he was fooling.

“Well, you were awful quiet this morning,” she said, circling back to the discussion they had left unspooled.

“I told you I was having silly thoughts,” Gendry said after some contemplative chewing. “Ones I didn’t want to burden you with.”

It was a lie. A well-intentioned one, perhaps, or one Gendry did not recognize in the telling, but a lie, nonetheless. It wouldn’t do to confront him about it though.

“Your thoughts aren’t a burden to me,” Arya said instead. “I thought you knew that. You’re my friend.”

“Aye, I’m your friend.” He spooned another bite into his mouth. “I promise I’m not angry with you or nothing, sometimes I just need to remember to keep my mouth shut.” The confidence in his voice returned as he spoke, the sentence ending with a playful rise of his eyebrows. It left Arya more at ease. Perhaps she had been digging too deep in a shallow plot.

“It might do you some good,” she teased, then plucked the bowl from his hands for washing. 

* * *

Once they were all hunkered back inside the Guest House, as warm as they could make themselves, someone produced a pair of dice. By unknown suggestion, but wholesale agreement, an eager group of competitors arranged themselves in a circle in the bottom hallway.

Arya had never seen a group of men play dice sober. The drink had been what she thought caused all the shouting and accusing, but it seemed all the men were well capable of it even when they were only betting pebbles.

She stood on the outskirts for a moment, before establishing herself in the circle, shoving shoulders to create enough space for her to sit. 

Sansa and Meera retreated from the game to deliver meals to Brienne and Bran respectively, but Rickon had no such preoccupations, attracted by all the shouting and pushing his way into the circle. He didn’t have a head for odds, but with Ramil to his left and Rory to his right, there were patient teachers for him to garner the rules. And then he was hollering along, perhaps just for the joy of being loud.

She had a string of poor rolls but didn’t let it affect her mood to much. Instead, she humored Vardus and Pickett and Rory, blowing on their dice whenever they asked. Holding the title of Lady Luck than She-Wolf or Dawn Fighter or Princess, silly and fun and nothing for the songs. All the excitement left her cheeks flushed.

Attracted by the commotion and hoots, Brienne appeared from her room down the hall, carrying out her chair so that she might sit and watch. Quickly she became the group’s new source of luck and approval, though she didn’t take the attention as well as Arya. Her blunt suggestions and patchy blush just seemed to fuel their excitement. At least until Beth poked her head out to yell at them to keep it down, only for her to be dragged into the game and win heavily on the pair of sixes she tossed on her first roll.

Gendry took the spot beside Brienne’s chair then, arms crossed as he looked over her shoulder. He’d never been one for gambling. Brienne and Gendry had an odd relationship, where sometimes they stared awkwardly at each other and failed to speak. She’d never heard either of them say a negative word about the other though. Sometimes the past manifested itself in curious ways.

She caught his eye and he simply raised his eyebrows with a slight nod to her measly collection of two pebbles. With a bat of her hand she waved off any suggestion of her future failure, determined not to make a comeback.

It was not to be so. On the next roll she put a safe bet on sevens, only for a pair of fives to turn up and her to lose it all.

“I wouldn’t have dreamed that you’d be gone from the game so fast, milady!” exclaimed Jonah, a hand held to his heart in faux heartache.

“Well, it’s not about winning it’s about enjoying the experience, isn’t that right?” She called, dusting off her pants as she stood and extracted herself from the circle.

“Oh I think it’s about winning alright!” Rickon laughed, his head bent towards Ramil’s as they snickered at her expanse.

“Oh yes, my pockets are really hurting at the moment,” she bit back. It had been ages since she’d been so sarcastic, and she felt the joyous pull of it at the corners of her mouth. Still invested in the outcome of the game she took up a spot next to Gendry, leaning forward whenever the dice landed to determine the outcome.

“Perhaps you should have been more daring,” Gendry said, also watching, but with a more withdrawn appreciation. “In you betting.”

“Oh that’s rich from you,” Arya said, teasing, “You didn’t even dare to play.”

He shrugged. That argument had him beat; he looked put off by it.

The game went on for another hour at least and Arya provided her commentary and encouragement when she felt necessary, even as Gendry and Brienne watched quietly. Rickon lasted an impressively long time. Beginner’s luck, Arya was sure. But by the end of it Beth had them all beat and seemed quite impressed with herself.

Not wanting to watch Garren’s attempts at flirting, Arya offered to help Brienne back to her room only to have the suggestion denied.

“I’m feeling much better, actually, and after all this excitement I think I’ll sleep quite well.”

Arya wasn’t tired herself yet, but she could already feel boredom licking at her heels. Her room didn’t provide much in terms of distractions. Her bed was made and the floor empty of deserted clothes or shoes, no cleaning to be done. There wasn’t even space enough to water dance.

She couldn’t help but remember the hominess of Gendry’s room, the warmth in his bed. The circle of company from the afternoon had dispersed to other ventures. Gendry, predictably, hadn’t gone off with any of them. He wouldn’t complain about her presence, and if they were both trying to stave off boredom, she could think of a few ways for them to do so together. She’d teach him something about daring.

He was easy enough to find, alone in his room, sitting by the fireplace.

“You can come join me,” he said, and Arya had to smile. It always felt good to be his exception.

“Are you whittling?” She asked, sitting beside him at the hearth. He had in hand what might have once been a broom handle, or a wooden spoon. Gendry had scraped away the end of it, but otherwise done nothing to give it new shape. The shavings were brushed into the fire.

“Trying,” he grunted. His thumb was stable on the dull side of the small knife, guiding the edge down in slow, steady strokes. Even if the results spoke differently, he looked practiced at it. Blades always looked right in his hands. “Heard it was supposed to be relaxing, but I’m right dreadful at it. Grain of the wood is messing me up, iron doesn’t—Anyway, what are you up to?”

He looked up at her, the centers of his eyes blown wide as he turned away from the firelight. Her breath rose harshly in her chest. Despite it being her intent, she had not realized they were sitting so close. 

“Just trying to spend my time.”

“Do you want to give it a go?” He handed over the wood he had been working with, and Arya was surprised by its smooth texture. Gendry was no expert, but he wouldn’t stand for splinters either. There was no extra knife, so he placed the short blade in her hand as well. It was different from holding a sword or dagger, where both edges were sharp. Gendry’s touch landed lightly on her left wrist, rotating her grip so she could push the blade away from her. She wasn’t so used to being aware of the skin on the back of her hand.

She attempted a few strokes. There was an appeal to woodworking. Surely there was. Just not one that Arya was looking for at the moment. She’d rather just be with Gendry.

“I didn’t really want to try,” Arya admitted. She wanted his company. In bed, preferably. “I want—” It would be easier to show him, surely.

She set down the knife, then stood, stepping out of her boots, and unwinding her hair. The too-big tunic slipped over her head without resistance, leaving her in her thin undershirt. She bent down to roll off her socks, not deigning to stop, even when she heard Gendry’s heavy exhale. They had never been fully naked together before, but she wanted to be. The thought of his eyes on her bare skin made her breath shallow and her fingers buzz.

“Arya,” he said, shifting to stand next to her. There was a strain in his voice, a question, and for a moment she thought he’d ask her to stop. His chest expanded with a deep, held breath, and then his eyeline drifted past her. “…Is the door locked?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She should have felt embarrassed by her own thoughtlessness, but she was too preoccupied with the slope of Gendry’s nose in the firelight and the memory of all his kisses.

He brushed past her, one hand glancing against her shoulder blade as he did so, and it was enough to make her pulse thrum in her throat. More so when the lock snapped into place.

He stood before her again in a blink, close enough to feel his heat.

She felt herself grow damp under his gaze, before he even reached forward for the tie at her hip. His mouth was open, his eyelids low as he undid the simple knot. When the garment sat loose on her hips, his gaze raised to meet hers, heavy with anticipation. Her hands covered his at her waist, although he did not need the encouragement to guide her pants and smallclothes down her legs.

The room was still cool despite the fire, and her skin pebbled in contrast to the heat within her, but her shoulders only shivered when he dragged his knuckles up her thighs, pinching the hem of her undershirt between forefinger and thumb and tugging it up and off. If the thought of his eyes on her bare skin made her breath shallow, the reality of it made her gasp.

“Arya, I—” he said, thick and low, before cutting himself off by leaning forward to kiss her.

It was desperate. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other was wrapped around her waist, holding her tight with her own hands caught between their chests. But despite the intensity it wasn’t a truly lustful kiss. A different sort of feeling fueled it, but any thought to parse out what it meant was soon washed away from the heat of his mouth, open against hers. They had never kissed like that before—raw and exposed and making her forget what was his mouth and what was hers. Until he pulled away.

“Sorry,” he murmured, creating a slip of space between their bodies so that he could take her hands. She was about to tell him not to apologize, because that was…but then he was guiding their hands to the hem of his own shirt. It was easy to take off.

Their next kisses were more familiar, exploratory, deep, and slow. Enough to make her forget where she stood and care for nothing expect the drum of arousal within her, and who she was with.

The skin below Gendry’s navel was softer than anywhere else on his torso. When she touched him there, running her hands along his waistband, his skin twitched, and his hips stuttered towards her. So easy to slip his belt off, to hook her fingers against his hips and divest him of the garment.

He looked good naked. Strong, and the healthiest she had ever seen him. How strange, how amazing, that she could just look at him and feel her cunt clench.

They each held a matching breath for a moment, broken when Gendry let out a small laugh, equal parts excited and anxious. With one hand he stroked her cheek.

“You’re lovely,” he said.

His head ducked to kiss her against her throat. In matched steps they walked back towards the bed, separating only to arrange themselves over the covers, her knees bent on either side of him, their bodies warm enough despite the freezing winter.

Gendry’s mouth was soft across the angles of her collarbones and the valley of her breasts. The ghost of his touch did more to enflame her, to pull her nipples taunt, than steady pressure. She felt like a delicacy. More so when his hands stroked up the outside of her thighs, over and over.

Her eyes were pressed tightly closed as her hands roamed over the muscles in his back, as his lips pressed a string of kisses onto the undersides of her breasts. The delicate touch curved down her spine and settled on her clit.

Her lips quivered. Her breath hitched. They were alone, and she didn’t have to be quiet about desiring him.

“You don’t have to be so gentle with me,” she said, even though her thigh was trembling under his touch. He could still it by gripping her harder, bending her leg high. But he didn’t.

“I know,” he said, with some regret at having to remove his lips from her collar bone. And he did know. She still remembered that first time, the bite of his teeth on her shoulder that matched the bite of pain that came when she first sunk onto him, not quite wet enough, but not caring either. The rush of feeling had been a distraction from so much else. “But I want to. Don’t you like it like this?”

One hand dipped between their bodies, fingers circled where she was wettest, and she knew if he thrust into her now there would be nothing but pleasure.

“I do,” she moaned, angling her hips so that his fingers might glide inside her. They did, and _oh_ he knew her so well. The stretch felt good, the connection even better as he stroked her inner walls. Anticipation was thick and savory in her mouth.

“I still think about being inside you here,” he murmured against her neck. Just an observation, just words, but they sent licks of pleasure through her. His hair was soft in her palm and she gripped it hard.

His thumb brushed through her outer folds and she ground down into his hand, angling her hips until he brushed against her clit.

“Like that,” she encouraged, eyes opening to see him hovering over her, eyes wide, glancing down to where he was touching her. His mouth was open, face awash with awe and arousal. He licked his lips. She surged upwards to kiss him and he groaned her name.

Another finger slipped inside her and a choked syllable escaped from her throat before her eyes shut again. Her hands scrambled across his shoulders, over the arm he braced himself against, curled against the back of his neck, trying to dispel the energy in her palms.

Tendons in her thighs jumped, her cunt pulsed. She wanted Gendry closer. Her body arched towards his, nerves electrified. She came with a broken gasp and shaking shoulders. All of her sensitive and light and loose.

She smiled, eyes still closed as tremors danced across her belly and the small of her back.

“So lovely,” she thought she heard Gendry say. Unsure, she peeled her eyes open, breaths till deep, but now controlled. 

He brushed stray slips of hair off her forehead and cheeks, smiling at her with happy eyes before placing a peck on the button of her nose. She smiled too, rested her hands at the top of his chest, prepared to trail them down, but he caught those hands in his own grasp, and kissed the back of her knuckles. As if he somehow knew it would make her heart sing.

She felt full of emotion. So loved, and—

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	5. Love of the Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> contemplation and conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> picking up where we left off.

Arya breathed deeply.

Gendry was in love with her.

Well.

That all seemed like a bit too much to process at the current moment.

She leaned up to kiss him. Surely if they continued doing that, neither of them would have much of an inclination to discuss their feelings. She wondered if her body spoke as loudly as his as she tugged him off. If her appreciation of the way his eyes got all deep and dark as he ran a hand through her hair and said her name with a groan spoke to something she didn’t even know herself.

All she was confident in knowing, as she washed off her hands, was that it made Gendry properly sleepy. 

It made her sleepy too, which she hadn’t been expecting. And Gendry was warm, and the lines of his face were relaxed, and she always liked curling up with him. So she let his arm cradle her bare hip. Let her fingers play across his knuckles and stubble with curious, mindless touches.

She knew she valued Gendry, more than almost anyone. He was her oldest and truest friend. The idea of him loving her didn’t unsettle her, it felt right, and comforted her as she fell asleep.

* * *

Gendry was tending the fire when she woke. With good reason, the cold nipped at her bare shoulders when she sat up. She had forgotten that she was naked.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “You were resting so easy.” She wondered if there was some sort of implication there, that she usually did not. She blinked the thought away.

“It’s best that you did,” she said, noticing that he was near fully dressed. “It’s morning?”

“Aye, by my best guess.” He sat back on the bed then, over the covers while she was under, his boots in hand. “I thought I’d go check on the horses, I’m not sure if anyone did yesterday.” He paused then, no doubt expecting her to volunteer to come along. Normally she would have, but she thought she’d like to have the morning to herself.

“That’s good of you,” she said instead. She didn’t know what she’d make of her time today, but she’d start with getting dressed. 

Gendry’s boots were tied, but he hesitated to leave, not so much watching her get dressed as stealing glances. He coughed as she sat beside him to tie her own boots.

“I’ll see you later then?”

“Yes.” She wanted to have a proper conversation later, once she’s sorted her own thoughts out further.

“Alright then.” He pecked her forehead.

Arya waited a few minutes after he had left, feeling sort of pliant and directionless. If there wasn’t a blizzard whipping around them, she would have gone down to the courtyard to ripple through her water dancing forms, or gone for a run around the walls of Winterfell.

Seeing as the weather wouldn’t permit it, she instead decided to peruse the library. She recalled Sansa’s project to straighten and reorganize it; she might as well appreciate the fruit of her labor. Books, by all accounts, were a good place to look for answers.

Though she hadn’t expected to see her sister reading one after climbing the fire stained steps of the library tower. 

“You braved the storm to be here?” Sansa flinched in her seat, one hand going to her heart and making her lose her page. “Sorry,” Arya said, she hadn’t thought she was being so quiet, perhaps the wind outside had disguised her approach.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” Sansa admitted, flipping back through pages of the tome set in front of her. “Why are you here?”

“Wanted someplace to be, somewhere to think.” Arya shrugged. “What are you doing?”

“Reading over old trade agreements, I won’t bore you with it.”

Arya frowned, taking the seat across from her sister. 

“Who said I wouldn’t be interested?”

Sansa blinked. “You’ve never cared about politics and negotiations and agreements.”

Arya huffed, though it was true enough. She’d only cared about laws and policies in the ways that they affected the people. Gossip and backstabbing and contracts among lords had always seemed a waste of time to her.

“I care about the North. I care if its people go hungry or homeless.”

“I never thought otherwise,” Sansa said, though Arya didn’t think that entirely true. Sansa had often misconstrued Arya’s disinterest in courtly politics as heedlessness for ruling in all its forms. She seemed genuine now though.

Arya sighed and propped her chin on her fist. Sansa didn’t understand her like Jon had, not even so much as Bran did now, but there was sincerity in the way she was smiling at her. It was worth something. Worth Arya’s honesty.

“I want to help the North,” she admitted, refusing to bow her head or look at her hands. “I want to help Bran rule. I just don’t know how. All I cared about for so long was learning how to fight, I don’t know what else I’m good for.”

“Oh Arya,” Sansa breathed. “I don’t think any one of us knows what we’re doing really.” She tilted her head in thought, and Arya was reminded of Brienne’s words, of Gendry’s. They had freely admitted that they had no real plans for the future either. “And you have _so_ many talents,” Sansa continued, her voice took on a contemplative air. “Loving people chief among them. That alone is a gift to the North.”

“…Thank you,” Arya said, both made uncomfortable and flattered by the compliment. The chair was stiff-backed and she felt caught between it and Sansa’s gaze. She rose and began making her way through the stacks.

The bookshelves were quite barren, housing only an infantile assortment. Perhaps once the roads were safe enough for a journey up from Old Town, a new Maester would bring along some of his collection. For now the titles leaned slightly to the left, almost begging for company to stand them upright. Arya tried to balance them when she could, glancing at front covers as she did, hoping something might spark her interest. Most of the histories were gone. She found the leather binding to _The Chronicles of Cailin_ but all the pages had been ripped out. Lineages and legends were missing too.

What remained were the natural histories, books of the body, of stars, of plants and landscapes; the sort that Bran had read aloud the day previous. She straightened one such book, _Perennial Varieties of the North,_ surprised when a pressed flower slipped from between the pages. A pansy, maybe, purple and sentimental. Arya carefully replaced it. The flower had survived destruction everywhere around it, in her mind it deserved to be preserved. She turned, circling her way back to the front of the library.

Loving and caring for people hardly seemed like a talent. Though the longer she thought about Sansa’s words, the truer they rang. How many times had she been afflicted by cruelty and apathy as a child? Kindness had been such a rare fruit. If she was capable, it only seemed proper to offer love wherever she could.

Her thoughts wadded back to Gendry. She’d loved him for a long time, never thought to quantify it. Now it pattered like rain on the roof of her mind.

She slipped her gloves back on, the dry feeling of paper lingering on her fingertips.

“I’ll see you at mealtime,” she said to her sister, once again bent over her book. It must be one of the few remaining books on historical politics.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Arya shrugged. She had never been an avid reader, but her time in the library had given her much to think about.

Her feet carried her to the glass gardens, rather than back to the Guest House. It was warmer than the snow filled air outside, but just as dark, with snow collected heavily on the slanted roof. There was just enough light for Arya to inch her way through the plots without incident. The flowers grew in the northwest corner, although there was only one variety that had taken bloom, in the shadows of the Winter Rose bushes. She dug in the dirt, careful to pull the roots of the small flowers out in their entirety without disturbing the drooping white petals.

The blubs of the three chosen flowers sat at the base of her wrist, the petals extending just to her fingertips. She wrapped her thumb protectively around the stems, and held her hand close to her chest beneath her coat as she waded through the storm back to her room.

She didn’t know how well they’d survive in her windowsill. Arya didn’t have a gardener’s touch, or a windowsill with consistent sunlight. But she would encourage the snowdrops to grow, and that had to count for something.

* * *

The storm petered out at the end of the second day, whimpering its last breath rather than roaring it. The chill blue skies of the day that followed were ushered in by a messenger. His frame suggested there should be more weight on him, but he hollered loud enough.

He was a vassal of the Flints of the Mountains and came with news of the people who had sheltered there during the Long Night.

“I was able to follow the storm here, rather than get caught up in it. I think we’re due for days of blue skies,” he said, walking with Arya and Sansa to the Great Hall to meet with Bran. He gratefully accepted a bowl of hot soup along with his bread and salt.

The Starks and their guest situated themselves around the fire, all of them eager for news. Winterfell felt isolated, and any fresh face was a spark of interest; as they maneuvered through small talk the Great Hall began to fill, near everyone eager to listen. Arya even caught sight of Brienne on her feet, her head peeking out over everyone else’s. Their guest did not seem to find their audience disconcerting, he had been living in cramped quarters too.

Various introductions were made, each of her siblings saying their piece before Bran called Gendry and Brienne forward as southern knights, even if their presence wasn’t the oddity it might have been a decade ago. The Flint man, Windel, nodded and was generally agreeable, even when it was obvious he was anxious. It did not take long for them to reach the crux of the matter.

“We were able enough to shelter the vulnerable, during the Long Night, but we don’t have the food or the land to shelter them much longer, Your Grace.”

Bran nodded, long resigned to this information. “The North is grateful for your hospitality, although I’m sure your guests will attest to that themselves. And I agree, I think it’s time to settle people back on their lands once more, there’s enough daylight for it.”

The Flint emissary was clearly relieved, and Arya wondered how dire resources were strained up in the mountains. The situation had been meager at the Wall, and that’s where the majority of the resources from across Westeros had gone.

“I’m expecting a representative from House Mormont soon, so we’ll be able to negotiate the settlement of refugees from Bear Island as well. You’re welcome to stay until they arrive,” Bran continued. “Although if you could be so gracious as to lend your services while you’re here, it would be much appreciated.”

The man nodded and agreed to sit next to Bran later in the evening, after he had caught some rest. Chatter erupted once he had completed his exit, speculations on the weather and end of winter running up against hopes of Winterfell filling up once more. They all should have been outside, working to clear the snow, but everyone seemed flushed with excitement and the need to share their opinions. Multiple voices accosted Bran, making ill-informed inquiries that sought to confirm their suspicions with his sight. Arya suspected that it would devolve quickly and thought that she might set an example and get started in the courtyard herself.

Though she wasn’t alone. Gendry, sick of the crowd no doubt, was dragging out the braziers into strategic positions. His breath clouded in front of him in annoyed, and endearing, huffs.

“Need help?” She called. Gendry never startled at her approaches like so many others seemed to. It was too far to make out his face, but something about his posture told her he was smiling.

“Wouldn’t mind it.”

They stirred up coals and lit kindling together and it was enough to keep her warm, even when she was up to her knees in snow. It helped that Gendry was standing so close.

“I expected you to be caught up in the politics for a bit longer,” Gendry said, as they shuffled over to the last brazier that needed lighting.

“It was more gossip than politics when I slipped out,” she confided. “I think everyone is trying to avoid picking up a shovel.” Although neither he nor she was moving to clear snow either. Where she was standing now felt just right.

“We had the same idea then,” Gendry said. “It’ll be more work later, but I’m glad it’s just the two of us.”

An under-stated statement. She glanced up at him, expecting a comment about loud crowds, or his distaste for gossip, instead he was looking at her with endurance and intent. 

“What?” She asked reflexively, hoping to snap him out of his trance before it made her throat constrict.

He blinked.

“What, what?”

Had he been looking at her like that without even realizing? She exhaled in a puff of white.

“Why were you looking at me like that?”

What a stupid question. The moment she spoke the words she wished she could snatch them back, think just a moment longer before she opened her mouth. For she knew why he was looking at her like that. There was but a single reason one person looked at another in such a way. Gendry knew too, he was flushed, with wide, indignant eyes.

“Well I’m sorry, milady, I hadn’t realized that I wasn’t allowed to look at you,” he said, more defensive than usual, taking out the hard edge he spoke with when he was angry or threatened.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” she said, quiet, making sure to catch his eye. That was a hill they had long since traversed. When it was the two of them, he didn’t call her anything but Arya, and he knew he was her equal. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Gendry.”

She half expected him to storm off. They had both done a lot of that when they were younger. Now Gendry just shook his head and kicked snow. It made her hopeful.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly it does.”

He turned to look at her properly, his shoulders, his hips, all of his body focused on her. It brought her back to the night before last. Especially when his voice took on a low tone. “Don’t make me ask, Arya.”

_Can I ask you a question...Never mind._

A surge of aliveness ran across her tongue and through her blood. Nerves tasting like static shock on the roof of her mouth. 

“What if I want you to?”

His eyelashes fluttered, trying to blink away snowflakes that weren’t there. He was nervous too, but he tramped it down with stubborn determination and hope. When he spoke, the question was quiet, but steady.

“Do you love me like I love you?”

She was surprised even when she also wasn’t. He could show her he loved her in his touch, through his eyes, in the way he laughed with her, but it still felt different when he said it. She could feel the flush in her chest. Her heart galloped, but it wasn’t from nerves anymore.

“Yes,” she said, smiled, “yes.”

What an easy answer, really. Didn’t take any forethought after all.

Gendry’s look of surprise made her lips stretch wider. Tiny movements worked his jaw, as if struck with incomprehension.

“Arya, I love you…like how a man should love his wife. I want to be your partner in all things, and I want you to be mine.” He spoke as if he couldn’t quite believe her and had to clarify to the highest degree. His insistence made her heart hum.

“Yes, Gendry,” she laughed. “I know. I—I want that too. I love you too.”

He kissed her in the courtyard, in the open air. His palms cupped her cheeks and guarded them against the cold. His nose nudged hers as they broke for breath, the length of her body bending towards his. She tugged on his lips with her own when it became apparent that all Gendry wanted to do was share her breath, his hands still on her face. She wanted a deep kiss, one hot enough to melt her bones.

“Kiss me again.”

And he did.

When she mustered the wherewithal to open her eyes, she didn’t know which way was up.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Gendry said. His hands had migrated from her face while they kissed, but his thumb returned to stroke her cheek now.

“We _have_ kissed before, stupid.”

“Not that.” He rolled his eyes, but then his voice got low again. “Tell you I love you.”

Curiosity spiked. She locked her wrists around his neck, content to sway a bit with him in their spot in the courtyard.

“How long?”

He scoffed. “A long time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He huffed. “Yes, it is.”

She thought about the reflections she had made been sifting through since she’d became aware of the depth of his affections of her. There wasn’t anything intuitive about love or desire; she’d known that they’d cared for each other for years, yet she’d never reckoned with what that might have meant. Thoughts and feelings couldn’t be pinned down like fabric. Gendry probably didn’t know the truth of his own feelings for ages either; only knew that they ran deep. Still, he could have told her when he figured it out, there wasn’t a time when she wouldn’t have heard him out. 

“You could have told me,” she said, fingernails scratching through the hair on the back of his head. 

“Could I have?” He sounded almost rhetorical, or sad.

“Yes! How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t carry if I’m a Lady or a Princess or—”

“That’s not what I meant.” He cleared his throat. “What if one of us died? I still think about…”

She hugged him with crushing force when it became obvious that he was incapable of finishing the sentence.

“It would have hurt anyway,” she said, damp-eyed at just the thought. Their friendship, or whatever one called the desirous tint it had taken on at the Wall, had been so integral to her. Calling him love would not have eased that ill.

“You’re right,” he said, squeezing just a bit harder. “But I was terrified all the time during the war, at least that was one small thing I could do to protect my heart. And then, after Jon died…”

He drifted off, gauging her reaction, and while the reminder stung, it wasn’t enough to pull her from his confession or his embrace.

“…you were hurting so much. I couldn’t expect anything of you. I didn’t. Shocked me dumb when you came back and asked me to kiss you.” 

She smiled against the fur of his hood, and thought through his honesty, still holding onto him. She wouldn’t have been able to love him the way they deserved even two months ago. She was grateful for where she was now. Hoping to lighten the air around them, and struck with her own mischief, she lifted her head form his shoulder.

“You’re always dumb.”

“Rude little—” He pinched her waist which made her squirm, but she didn’t really mind. Gendry loved her and she loved him. There was no firmer bedrock.

Arya loosened her hold on him and stepped away, pointing towards the shovels they had abandoned. Gendry tilted his head with obvious reluctance, casting a glance at her that suggested several things he’d rather be doing, but when she tilted her head to match, he turned to collect the shovels.

And made his back the perfect target for a snowball.

It landed true, with a dull thud. Gendry spun around, stooping to collect snow for retribution, but couldn’t complete the task, overcome with his own laughter. The walls of Winterfell were at least secure enough to ensure that it echoed back, loud and hearty. For the first time in many years, perhaps ever, Arya suspected that things would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😌 
> 
> One more chapter to wrap everything up! Thanks for reading <3


	6. Steps Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newcomers arrive in Winterfell and warmth begins to fill its walls.

Clearing the snow took a day and a half. The crisp whiteness it had possessed the day after it had fallen quickly turned to grey slush. But that meant the snow was melting, slowly and surely.

The fresher days brought new arrivals to Winterfell, though the Mormont emissary was not the first among them. Instead a woman and three children arrived on a chill morning, the youngest not yet toddling. It was impossible to guess their ages with them all being so thin underneath their furs, but their eyes shone when Arya and Meera came down to meet them at the Southern Gate.

“Gods above,” the woman said, one hand pressed to her heart as her shoulders slumped. “I had nothing but prayers that the Starks would be here, I haven’t had a lick of news in months.”

Such was the case for most rural families. There had been a great effort to recruit and evacuate people across the North, but with the land so vast and disparate some villagers slipped through the cracks, while others could not be forced out of their homes or off their lands. That this group was alive gave Arya hope for other stragglers of the North.

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Arya suggested, leading the way, “the kitchen fire is warm and it looks like you’ve had a rough journey.”

“I hardly believe I’ve made it,” the woman said, a heavy sigh indicating the stacks of her troubles. She went on to introduce herself, Sian, from Ballowston. She was the children’s aunt, not their mother as Arya had first thought. Her good-brother had left to fight at the Wall even after avoiding being called to join Robb’s army. He hadn’t returned. Her sister had been heartbroken. “Gave every bite of her meals to these ones,” she whispered, though Arya suspected that Lyna, the eldest child, heard the words and knew what they meant. “Passed in her sleep one night, five months after this fellow was born.” She brushed the cheek of the boy on her hip and he gave a mighty yawn.

Olla was halfway through plucking a chicken when they entered the kitchens and tutted at the state of the children, abandoning her task to stir together a pot of porridge. She hemmed and hawed at the interruption, but looked at them with a fondness that reminded Arya of Old Nan.

The baby squirmed a little as he was passed between unpracticed arms and unfamiliar faces. When the porridge was served, thick and hot, his mood gladdened, smears collecting on his chin, despite Meera’s attempts at careful spooning. And when he was placed in Arya’s lap after his burping, he cooed as she jogged her leg and kept stable hands on his little waist.

“He just likes to pretend to be fussy,” Sian said, rubbing the hair of the middle child, Poppy, who had fallen asleep in her aunt’s lap promptly after finishing her meal. “He ought to be acting princely, being named for King Jon.”

Arya’s knees stilled. She looked down.

The child’s hair had yet to grow in, despite near a year to his name. No teeth either. His eyes weren’t babe’s blue anymore, but they hadn’t settled into proper brown yet either.

“The best name there is, really,” Arya said, choked.

A tremulous silence overtook the room, one Arya felt centering around herself. She felted boxed in and hated the singular vulnerability in her voice.

“Bran Stark is King in the North now,” Meera said lowly, seeking to distract from the room’s new heaviness.

“Oh. A terrible loss, then.”

Arya did not listen to Meera’s soft-spoken explanation of the end of the war; she kept her gaze trained on little Jon. He tugged on the collar of her coat with a tiny, strong fist, stalwart despite the struggles of his short life. A Northman through and through.

* * *

Brienne’s health had improved enough that she could abscond her bedrest and begin doing gentle exercise. Arya enjoyed pacing the length of the courtyard with her in the early morning, liked stretching and feeling her muscles tense and release as her blood warmed. Far better than sitting vigil at a bedside.

“One day soon we’ll need to practice sword forms,” Brienne said, as they turned towards the kitchens to eat their breakfast before continuing on with their days. “I fear my body will forget them otherwise.”

That thought had never occurred to Arya. Half her life she’d had a sword in hand. And while hauling stone had kept her arms and legs toned, weeks had passed since she’d last moved through the delicate movements of water dancing. Was that something her body could forget? Did she want it to? 

She thought of the unburdened glee clashing sticks with Mycah had brought about; remembered how satisfaction had rolled over her whenever Syrio had smiled over their crossed wooden swords. How simple it had all been before despots had tightened their grip on her wrist and forced her to swing true.

But there were no more wars in sight. A friendly bout with Brienne might bring back some of that sweet summer freeness.

“Alright,” Arya agreed. “So long as you think you’re ready for it.”

They arrived at the kitchens then, the heat of the fire shocking the limbs still clung to the cold of the courtyard. Her fingers, even while cocooned in her gloves, curled gratefully around her bowl of broth.

She wasn’t alone in appreciating the hot meal. Rickon came barreling in just as she was sitting down, with Gendry not far behind him.

“Good morning,” he said, addressing her and Brienne both. He sat with his bowl in hand and let his attention settle on her. “How did you sleep last night?”

He punctuated the question with a small, secret smile, for he’d asked the same earlier that morning.

“Peacefully if not deeply,” she replied, the response the same as it had been when she was tying her boots at the foot of his bed.

“Glad to hear it. And you, Ser Brienne?”

Brienne thanked him for the concern and revealed that her injuries, though healing, made sleep fitful. As others trudged in for breakfast their conversation was overrun with inquires being made of Arya as to everyone’s tasks for the coming hours.

The morning had the strappings of a productive day, a soft, barely-there wind, and a clear goal. Arya made quick work of dividing necessary tasks, feeling constructive with her clear ideas established. 

When breakfast was finished, Arya led the way to the northern wall. Repairs were slow going, but they were not insignificant. The wall wasn’t being built high—they didn’t have the scaffolding for it—but it was being built. A barrier of eight feet was considerable protection against the gales of the North compared to a gaping space.

Gendry and Pickett were responsible for carting stones in wheelbarrows on the ground. It was Arya’s job, being nimbler, to set up the pulley system that lifted the stones. Garren directed them on the ground, and those not fit to heft stones kept busy mixing and spreading mortar. 

It was tedious, and at times there was so much yelling and clashing that is set Arya’s teeth on edge, her knuckles clenching as if checking her grip on a sword, but when the wall stretched unbroken, ten yards longer than it had when they started, the tension loosened in Arya’s jaw.

It stood taller than her, taller than any of them. A wall of stark gray, protective and strong.

The sunset came on too quickly, as it always did, no matter that the days were getting longer. Something in Arya’s chest told her to linger a moment, as the others made their way to collect their supper. A sort of howling calling out to her heart.

She braced herself in a spot where the wall was already set, getting a leg up high enough to cross her elbows over the top and look north. How paltry this wall was compared to the one that broke the horizon a fortnight’s ride away.

Her fingertips tapped at the hearty stone supporting her. Like frozen majesty, rugged practicality had its place. Perhaps nothing else better spoke to the spirit of Winterfell.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Gendry’s hand at the small of her back.

“Aren’t you hungry? Come to supper.”

Her knuckles rapped twice against a stone underhand.

“In a minute,” she said, her muscles relaxing as Gendry put just enough pressure under the movement of his thumb so as to ease but not to unbalance her.

“What are you thinking about?”

“The Wall,” she admitted. Gendry’s hand left her skin in favor of climbing up beside her, his elbow just barely nudging hers.

He exhaled as he did. There had barely been a breeze all day, but there was one now, to match his breath.

“Jon?”

She bit her lip.

“In a roundabout way.” The sky was deep blue now, and it cast blue light everywhere it landed. “I’m sad he never got to see Winterfell again. It’s just starting to look how it ought.”

The wind died again. With nighttime came a steep drop in temperature, but Arya had been far colder, and would not bend her will to the weather just yet. The moon was waxing, offering enough light for Arya to make out slow movement across the open field. 

“Look.”

Flashes of fur darted between shadows and starlight. Grey fur. Arya’s heart hung suspended in her chest, hoping Nymeria might cross the distance between them, stand close enough to nuzzle her palm.

Gendry whistled once, sharp and light, cutting through the stillness of dusk.

Nymeria stopped, turned her head. Her eyes were two moonlit pools, vibrant and alive and content. She pawed the earth once, and howled a response, low and soulful.

And then she turned her head and trotted on, too wild a beast to be held by the walls of Winterfell. Not with so much of the North to see.

Arya sighed when she finally lost track of the figure. Swallowed by the hills and the tails of her grey cousins. Her pack was with her, and she wasn’t so far away, really.

* * *

She and Gendry were late to dinner but early to bed. Arya had slept better than expected with her ankle entwined with his. It left her prepared for the commotion that came with the next morning.

Brienne had just joined her for their morning exercises when Ramil came rushing into the courtyard as fast as his feet could manage. Arya’s brow creased; she hadn’t thought young boys would be awake at so early an hour. It furrowed deeper when she saw the distraught look on his face.

“It’s Poppy,” he said without prompting. “She’s hurt herself.”

“Where?” Brienne asked, her tone even and calm to counter the frantic flutter of Ramil’s breath.

“The Main Keep. We were playing,” he began to explain, leading the way with haste. “And then the floor gave out and her leg got hurt.”

“Did you leave her there?” Arya asked, trying not to sound harsh.

“Lyna’s with her.”

They reached the Main Keep, ducking into a servants’ corridor on the main floor. Ramil led them to the laundry, just two doors down. It had sat unused for untold months, yet still a dampness lingered in the air. On the right-hand side of the room splintered floorboards jutted out at odd angles, like broken bones from flesh.

Arya ignored that for now, focusing her attention to Lyna and Poppy who sat just beyond the door’s threshold.

Poor Poppy looked too shocked to cry, which Arya hoped meant her ankle was sprained rather than broken. Although even through her stockings there was a distinct swelling. 

“Why don’t you run to the guest house and get her aunt,” she asked of Ramil, before sitting on the floor opposite Lyna. He was off like a dart.

“Can you walk on it?” Arya asked.

Poppy just shook her head, looking at her own ankle in curious disgust. Her lip quivered and Arya knew she had to be gentle.

The sound of a cupboard door shutting interrupted her next question, and she looked up to see Brienne offering old strips of cloth.

“Right,” Arya said, “Would you mind taking off your stockings so we could bandage your foot?”

She did so slowly, with Lyna’s help, a quivering gulp escaping her as they peeled the garment off her injured ankle. Her foot wasn’t stuck in any unnatural position, but the swelling was prominent, and already a sort of brownish bruise was covering the upper bridge of her foot. It would likely be a nasty dark purple for weeks. A wet gasp caught in Poppy’s throat and it was only then that she started crying. 

“Oh, shhh!” Lyna said with all the unsubtle comfort of an older sister. “It’s not that bad!”

“I’m going to check if it’s broken, okay?” Arya interrupted before anyone could be accused of being a crybaby.

She was no Maester, but she had been an active, and sometimes clumsy, child. Sprains were even more common to her know, after the wars. Gently, she rotated the sore ankle, stopping whenever she heard Poppy’s breath catch.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but it might hurt for a while. I’m going to wrap it now, tell me if it’s too tight.”

Sian arrived just as Arya was finished with the wrapping, she made a soothing noise when she saw Poppy’s tear stained cheeks.

“We’ll get you back in bed and bundle up some snow to put on that,” she said. “Do you think you can stand, Pops? You can lean on me and Lady Stark and we’ll hobble back to bed.”

“I could carry her,” Brienne insisted, her face a patchwork of sympathy as she watched the young girl test her weight. Arya crouched down so that her arm and shoulder might be used for support and shot a warning look at Brienne.

“There’s no need to strain yourself unnecessarily, although I’d thank you for opening the doors.”

Poppy was properly on her feet then, and though Sian and Arya had to stoop a bit for her arms to wrap around their shoulders, she seemed steady between them.

It was slow going back to the Guest House, especially on the uneven dirt and icy spots in the courtyard, but they arrived without issue. Brienne insisted that they take her room on the ground floor so that they wouldn’t have to maneuver the stairs. Their entrance caused some commotion, and drew both Meera and Gendry from their rooms, probably just before they had planned to leave for breakfast.

“Poor dear,” Meera said, before apologizing on behalf of the Castle and the lack of staff to mind the children. Arya thought it was a bit of a ridiculous thing to apologize for, and Sian seemed to agree.

“Nothing some rest and a couple kisses won’t fix,” she said, tucking a pillow beneath Poppy’s foot.

The room became quite crowded a moment later when Ramil burst through with a fussing Jon, desperate to hand him off to an adult.

Arya thought it was an appropriate moment to duck out. She nearly ran into Gendry, who was hovering in the hall. 

“What was that all about?” Gendry asked, eyes flitting back to the fretful little group.

“They were playing in the Main Keep and Poppy twisted her ankle. She’ll be fine, I think she gave herself a bad fright more than anything.”

Gendry nodded once.

“Lucky she did it here rather than out on the road, I suppose.”

“She only could have done it here. Come on, I’ll show you the damage.”

The sun was rising in the courtyard as Arya led the way back to the laundry. It seemed so much had happened that morning, and Arya still hadn’t had her breakfast. Yet it would have to wait even longer.

Arya took up an old wooden washing stick when they arrived and poked at the floorboards, directing Gendry to remain under the threshold. If slight little Poppy had enough weight on her to make the floorboards crumple underfoot, she didn’t want to go stepping on them herself, let alone have Gendry do it.

She left alone the boards that made a proper knocking sound as she hit them, but the ones that creaked horribly or sagged she put more pressure behind. The planks right around the broken one that had caused Poppy’s injury she was able to break away with a couple of hard, precise jabs. They looked to be rotted after years of sucking up the laundry’s humidity. Those that didn’t break straight away she pried up on her hands and knees.

It surprised her to find that the boards were not flush to the ground or stone throughout the room. Instead, a space, about the depth and width of her forearm, ran across the right side of the room and in it laid a pipe.

She called Gendry over, and the both of them inspected it.

“Look here,” he said, pointing to a place where the pipe bent down, running into the ground. “We must be just above the hot springs.”

“Of course.” One of the stairs down to the hot springs were just across the hall, to make lugging up warm water a short trip.

Gendry hummed and gave it a contemplative look before laying on his belly to reach down towards where the pipe extended. Getting a strong grip on it, he gave it a sharp twist and pull. There was a horrible crunching sound, revealing its instability. With careful maneuvering he extracted part of the pipe, clearly corroded, and bent out of shape. She could see the efforts of consideration in his eyes as he inspected it.

“Well we know why this place isn’t warm,” he mused, then smiled. “But I also think I can fix it.”

* * *

And he did. It took a significant part of the day for him to gather his tools, pull a brazier into the laundry so he’d have a hot enough fire, and pry up more floorboards so he’d have enough room to work. But after several hours of preparation and another of careful smelting and positioning, the pipe was solid and fixed.

Arya would have liked to watch him work, and offer a hand if he needed it, but she was busy with moving everyone and their things back into the Main Keep.

It was odd to be back in her old room. The colors of the rug were dull, the bedframe tiny. She felt too big for it. Before she could second guess herself, she turned around, her trunk still in hand, and shut the door behind her. She stopped in front of Jon’s old room, tucked awkwardly next to the staircase. It was bare, even the bed had been dragged out, but light from the narrow window drew lines of bright orange onto the deep brown floor, preventing it from looking like a crypt.

While she encouraged Sian to make up her old room for Lyna and Poppy, she hoped Jon’s would remain empty for a little while longer yet.

She chose a room on the first floor because she thought it would aptly fit two and might provide some privacy considering its distance from the Great Hall. Though the second point seemed to be not quite true, as her brother had come to a similar conclusion.

Arya disguised her frown as she watched Bran wheel himself around in the threshold of the room adjacent to hers. It was like they were children again, with Bran just moved out of the nursery, only six months before she had left Winterfell.

“Just like when we were little, huh?” She said, swallowing her minor annoyance. Both Bran’s old rooms and the Lord’s chambers were on the second floor. It would be unjust to hold onto any exasperation.

“Bit small for a King,” he mused, with that clever little pinch of his lips.

“Good. It’ll keep you humble.”

Bran laughed with his man’s voice in that way she was still unaccustomed to. It made her smile.

“Tell me if you need anything, I have a few more things to pick up.”

There weren’t any shades on the windows in the new room, and no rug to protect cold toes. It felt abandoned even after she had taken a broom to the floors and walls and beaten dust out of the mattress. But her flowerpot in the windowsill got more light than it had in the Guest House. A floral scent began to meander through the space, or so she imagined.

By the close of the day a subtle warmth roamed the rooms of the Main Keep, just in time for the arrival of the Mormont emissary.

* * *

Tierney Rendall was an imposing woman. Though she was neither as tall nor as broad as Brienne, she cut a striking figure with the stiff lines of her clothes and the length of her spear. Although night had fallen, and supper concluded, she insisted on making her report to the King.

At first, near everyone lingered to hear her findings, Rickon and Gendry included, but Tierney was verbose and eventually all but Meera, Sansa, Windel, and herself were more eager for bed than for news. Arya was grateful for her thoroughness, however.

Not only did she have word of the situation on Bear Island, she spoke with detail about what she had witnessed on her journey. The states of farms and homesteads, the damage winter winds had inflected on towers and villages, tallies on wild game and fowl, nothing was neglected. She seemed eager to begin etching out a plan to allocate the refugees, but Bran called an end to the meeting, saying they’d begin again in the early morning. 

Though it had been a long day, and Gendry’s sleeping breaths soothed her greatly, sleep evaded her that night. It was not the new room, or unfamiliar bed, but rather thoughts of the North. All the villages, broken like Winter Town, that didn’t have the benefit of all of Winterfell’s hands and practiced craftsmen.

The thoughts pricked the map of her mind, even in sleep. When the group reconvened in the morning, Arya did not feel fresher. It didn’t help that her skills in politics were not profound, and the details that Sansa and Bran went back and forth on confused her.

She understood people though. The connection they had with their own land, the fear and anger the last decade had bred. And when her siblings or their guests seemed to forget that, lost in the minutiae of transportation particularities, she reminded them. 

When the arc of midday had passed her foot began to tap. Arya could not remember the last time she had sat still for this long, she understood Rickon’s desire to flit from place to place a bit better. Her concentration slipped.

She thought of Sian and her brood, forgotten in some little hamlet. Thought of the hundreds of people from the mountains and Bear Island whose families were broken and whose homes were abandoned. How odd for there to be so many places in the North that she had never seen.

The conversation dragged on, details dissected and haggled, but Arya only listened with one ear, her mind and heart in their own meeting, parsing out her desires with the North’s necessities.

Finally Sansa capped her inkpot, and their guests’ conversation turned to dinner as they stood and mingled before making their departure. Arya remained sitting and reached for her brother’s hand.

“Bran, if we could just talk alone a bit longer?”

“Of course.”

Sansa and Meera had both caught the remark, the former tilting her head in curiosity, but her future good-sister caught Sansa’s elbow and they walked out together, plans in hand.

A flare of nervousness spiked Arya’s blood. The Great Hall was too vast for only two people. With the tapestries torn, Arya’s voice echoed.

“I’m thinking of leaving Winterfell.” The words rang in her own ears, sounding treasonous. The eyes of the direwolf carved into the mantle of the fireplace clawed through her skin without regard. But Bran’s face remained neutral, his eyes holding the same care they always did. “Not forever,” she amended, more to sooth herself than her brother, “but I want to help the North, travel with Tierney and help people settle again. Winterfell isn’t the only place that needs to recover from the war, and I want to rebuild things. I think I could be good at it.”

Bran’s smile grew in increments as she spoke.

“I think you’d be good at it too.”

She had been asking for reassurance more than permission she realized. The clarity with which she suddenly saw herself was astonishing. There had been a kernel of remorse at leaving her siblings and Winterfell so soon after her return, but neither accusation nor heartbreak sat in Bran’s face.

“I’m a Stark, my home will always be here, but I can’t stay knowing I could be helping others in the North.”

The Starks had survived, and they would continue to. Distance drew bonds thin, but it could not sever them. 

Bran nodded. “As long as you’re happy and safe, I would support you in any endeavor.”

“I will be.” Arya smiled then, flush with possibility. “And Gendry will come with me.”

The remark slipped out of her without thought, but guilt was quick on its heels. She shouldn’t assume he would come with her. Gendry was not keen on his decisions being made for him, not after a life of it. “Or I think he will. He’d like it too. But I’ll have to ask him.”

Bran nodded once, slow, like he was weighting his next words very heavily. 

“You might ask him to marry you, while you’re at it.”

The words bit at her ears, unexplained indignation sitting high in her chest.

“Marry me? How did you even know we—Brandon.”

He held his hands up in defense. “Knowledge gained through no meddling on my part. If you wish to keep your relationships in confidence I would advise against kissing in the courtyard.”

“Oh.”

“Although I might add that your affections are by no means discreet.”

Bran was doing a poor job at not smiling at her expense. Arya brought a hand to her cheek, felt heat burning there, and immediately dropped it.

“You know I’ve been very generous about not making comments about you and Meera this whole time.”

Bran did smile then, that same self-satisfied little grin.

“Just think about,” he said, failing to rise to her bait and turn the conversation. “If it would make you happy you should do it.”

Arya bit her lip. “I’ll think about it.”

Think about it she did. In fact she thought of little else, her conversations at supper distracted and half formed. Even when Rickon held her back after the meal to tell her about his journey out with the hunting party, something she would normally have given greater precedence, she twitched with inner contimplation. Her walk through the halls of the Main Keep after went unremembered, overshadowed with thoughts of calling Gendry her husband. It made her heart leap.

He was sitting up in bed, waiting for her, looking very attractive in the firelight with his sleep shirt loose around his shoulders.

“So how did all the politicking go?” He asked as she disrobed and prepared for bed.

“Good. Great.”

She unbound her hair and sat beside him, trying to figure out the best way to tell him of what she wanted to do once Winterfell was in a decent state of repair. Though once she started she found it wasn’t as hard as she had built it up to be in her head; Gendry was a good listener.

“And I want you to come with me,” she concluded. Arya didn’t mean to hold her breath, but she did, watching Gendry’s contemplative brow.

“We could be really good at that,” he said, with a sort of contented finality.

She embraced him, losing her balance slightly on the lumpy bed, but Gendry caught her and held her tight.

“Really?” She sought to confirm, disentangling them slightly so she could look into his face. “You’d be happy?”

“Yeah, Arya,” he said, and kissed her gently. “Being with you, living on our own terms…I like the sound of that a lot.”

He looked like he meant it. Sincere, with his whole heart open to her. She was reminded of a conversation they’d had long ago.

_The road is hard but traveling it with you always feels worthwhile._

Wasn’t that true. Her next question came without doubt. 

“What if we got married?”

“Huh?” His hands tightened where they held her shoulders, but the shock that initially colored his face quickly turned to pleasure. “You wanna marry me?”

She nodded, unable to stop her smile.

“I—I want that too,” he whispered, as if afraid someone else might hear. “But is that—” he swallowed, “Now? I just think we should wait till we’re a little older.”

He hung his head, as if afraid he had insulted her. How preposterous. This discussion of the future didn’t set her on edge. It felt tangible, like it wouldn’t break underfoot.

“Not until after Bran and Meera marry, then, and that won’t be until the Spring.” She hadn’t a timeline in mind when she’d asked, but that felt right. There might be buds on the weirwoods by then.

“Alright,” Gendry breathed. His smile was full, something rare and bright. He looked younger than she had ever known him. Affection bloomed in her chest and her own mouth unfurled. She leaned forward to kiss him, chaste and too joy-filled to properly maintain. She might have giggled. They were betrothed now.

She rolled over to kiss him better, her shift riding up as she straddled his waist, hands curling on his shoulders. There was a lightness in their touches, a sweetness in their kisses even when they were deep and arousing.

The fire kept the room well illuminated, making a spark catch in Gendry’s eyes as she sat up to peel her shift off. His hands eased the goosebumps off her skin, only to have her shiver as he tweaked her nipples, which had hardened under his gaze.

“Get undressed,” she encouraged, biting her lip as she watched him climb out of his clothes. When they were both bare, they settled together again.

Her eyelids fell, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the arousal in his eyes. She traced his arms, and chest, and neck, as his own played over her back, and thighs, and arse. They worked each other slowly, touching new places, whispering suggestions.

Almost without intention, her hips nestled into the cradle of his own, his erection running up the slit of her. They built each other up like that, almost shy at first, until the pretense was dropped, and Gendry set his hands on her hips to guide her, mouthing sweet affirmations in her ear.

It felt so good, a deep pleasure she felt pulsing in her lips. And soon all she could think about was sinking down onto him, how she ached to be full, how easy it would be. Gendry didn’t voice the thought, but she knew he agreed, his eyes focused on where she was rocking over him, his thumb pressing into her hipbone every time the tip of his cock lined up with her entrance.

But Arya wasn’t one for carelessness and had years of practice in restraint. She pushed herself back to sit against his thighs before arousal could cloud her judgement anymore.

“Sorry,” Gendry groaned, the heel of one hand pressed against his eye. “You’re just so…”

“It’s alright,” she interrupted, appreciating the flush in his cheeks, the way his cock was wet with her. “You do the same thing to me.” When she reached down he was slick in her grip.

“Oh good,” he let out in a strangled huff, before whispering that she could hold him tighter. So she did, working him over slowly. His tongue came out to wet his parted lips, offering a jolt of inspiration.

She bent down to lick the length of him, not noticing the taste as much as the flex of Gendry’s neck and the jump of his eyebrows.

“Gods yes, Arya,” he muttered, his eyes pined to her hers as she opened her mouth wider, lips closing around his head. The sound he made came from deep in his throat. She had never heard it before, it excited her terribly. With slow, curious intent, she held him at the base, her other hand braced on his thigh, fingernails scratching, barely.

He sat up a bit to tuck her hair behind her ear and then to dance his fingertips over her shoulders. His breath came heavy as Arya readjusted herself, tightening her grip some and testing her own limits as she bobbed her head down.

When she could go no lower, she curled her tongue, retreated to blow cool air over him. The tendons in his thigh tensed under her palm.

“Feels really good,” he murmured as she worked him back into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks. His moans became less and less restrained.

Almost leisurely, she trailed her free hand down between her legs, two fingers pressing into her clit.

She groaned around his cock and his hips jerked, not enough to gag her, just enough to tell her he liked it.

“Arya are you…? Fuck.” His head fell back. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

With some regret she backed off, eager to watch him fall apart because of her. With a few sure strokes his hips pressed up into her and his brows folded in a way that made her fingers circle faster until her abdomen clenched and her own eyebrows crinckled as she was overcome with warmth.

She was still catching her breath when Gendry tilted her chin and stole it with a kiss. Slowly they sank into each other’s embrace exchanging delicate pecks and touches. When their hearts had calmed and some of their heat had cooled, they cleaned each other up and slipped beneath the bedding.

It all felt like something wives and husbands did.

“What are you thinking of?” She asked when long minutes had passed with neither of them drifting to sleep. She hoped in secret for some deep, private declaration of affection.

“That you’ll be my wife one day. You. I really am the world’s luckiest bastard.”

Normally she’d disparage at him calling himself a bastard, but he held such awe in his words that she refrained. Instead she burrowed further into his arms, both embarrassed and pleased by his praise.

“I’m the lucky one. You’re—I just love you.”

“Love you too,” he hummed. 

* * *

In her mind, she was running, the thud of four paws on the frozen dirt raced like with the rhythm of a heartbeat. It was that rush of acceleration in her ribcage that woke her, early in the morning. Early, yet the sun was rising.

She needed to be outside.

“It’s early,” Gendry said, still sleepy, as she shifted from his side. “We didn’t really get a lot of sleep last night.” He was right, but he didn’t need to be so cocky about.

“Well go back to sleep if you want,” she said, baiting him just a bit, “But I’m going for a walk.”

Gendry was sitting up before she’d finished her sentence and was dressed and ready when she was.

Winterfell’s walls were far from whole, but they had proven capable of holding Arya’s weight. She led Gendry to the northern wall, so they wouldn’t have to look at the rubble of Winter Town, or stare directly into the rising sun. Its rays were a subtle yellow where they touched the bottom of clouds, and a deeper orange where they reflected off the snow. It was blinding and beautiful.

“Wow,” Gendry murmured, squinting up and eastward. They climbed all eight feet, so that they could sit cross-legged at the top.

There was a certain bejeweled majesty in the sky, a richness over the northern landscape that had been missing for so long. So often, the snow-covered plains looked bare, the Wolfswood frigid, but now they glimmered with color.

She clutched Gendry’s hand. Her chest rising and falling felt like the only thing that was moving in the whole world. Until she saw something shift on the snow from the corner of her eye.

A drifting snowbank, she thought at first, but no. It was alive.

“Look there,” she said, grabbing the inside of Gendry’s elbow.

“At what?” He peered, trying to follow the line of her finger, but she was already moving, her boots latching onto precarious footholds, her movements slapdash. Because she recognized that loping gait, that little black nose.

It was Ghost, on his silent paws.

Arya picked her way through cluttered stones where Winterfell’s wall had collapsed, and the dirt had been overturned. She heard Gendry call out, telling her to mind herself, but she paid his words little mind.

By the time her feet were on stable snow on the far side of the wall, Ghost had caught her sent and was dashing home. She laughed, and was caught unaware when a tear slipped over the curve of her lip.

He stopped in front of her, just her height, his breath warm against her palm. His eyes were that deep red, but so familiar, like looking into the face of her brother. 

“Welcome home,” she said, embracing Ghost’s neck, feeling the heat of his body against her cheek. She knew he was wild, like Nymeria, and wouldn’t stay forever, but it was enough to hold him now. A howl echoed back from the Wolfswood just as Gendry’s strong hand rested on the center of her back. “I hope you stay awhile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone for reading and commenting, hearing that people enjoy my writing always make me smile. This last chapter was a bit difficult, but I'm happy with it and I'm eager to hear your thoughts!


End file.
